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SOLITARY HOURS; 



BY THE AUTHORESS OF 



ELLEN FITZARTHUR, AND THE WIDOW S TALE, 

Cc-,e£<^e. 4ww ^Oic/lAz 






WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH: AND 
T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON. 



MDCCCXXVI. 






a 



The greater number of the pieces con- 
tained in this little Volume have appeared in 
Blackwood's Magazine. A few unpublish- 
ed Poems are now added to the Collection. 



(Southey, C. 3B. ) Solitary Hours. Post 8vo, boards, un- 
cut Edinburgh, 182' 
First edition, scarce. 



CONTENTS, 



Page. 

The Broken Bridge, 1 

On the near Prospect of leaving Home. — 1818, . . 12 

Sonnet— 1818, 15 

Sunday Evening, 16 

The Mariner's Hymn, 22 

Sonnet, written on reading Tasso's Life, .... 25 

Sonnet, 26 

Childhood, 27 

" It is not Death," 58 

Sonnet, 61 

The Ladye's Brydalle, 62 

Sonnet — 1818, 76 

Abjuration, 77 

Sonnet 1821, 81 

Beauty, . . 82 

My Garden, 96 

Autumn Flowers, 104 

" Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," . . . 106 

Gracious rain, 115 

The Welcome Home, 1820, 118 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

Page. 

To a Dying Infant, 122 

The Night- Smelling Stock, 128 

" I never cast a flower away," ]32 

Thoughts on Letter- Writing, 133 

" There is a tongue in every leaf," 148 

The Mother's Lament, 151 

My Evening, 153 

Farewell to my Friends, 162 

The Primrose, 166 

Farewell to Greece, 169 

The Smuggler, ; 171 

A Fair Place and Pleasant, 220 

The Three Friends, (Stanzas accompanying a Picture,) 222 

To my Birdie, 225 

Oh ! Envie's an uncannie guest ! 229 

Ranger's Grave. March 1825, 234 



THE 



BROKEN BRIDGE, 



It was a lovely autumn mora, 

So indistinctly bright, 
So many-hued, so misty, clear, 
So blent the glittering atmosphere, 

A web of opal light 1 

The morning mist, from the hill top, 

Sail'd off — a silvery flake- — 
But still in the under vale it lay, 
Where the trees peer'd out like islands grey, 
Seen dimly, at the dawn of day, 

On a waveless pearly lake. 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

And again, when we reach'd the woody rise 
That Boldre Church doth crown, 

The filmy shroud was wafted by, 

And, rejoicing in his victory, 

The dazzling Sun look'd down. 

We reach'd the Church, a two-mile walk, 

Just as the bell begun ; 
Only the clerk was station' d there, 
And one old man with silver hair, 

Who warm'd him in the sun. 

A grave-stone for his seat — one hand 

On his old staff leant he ; 
The other fondly dallyed 
With the bright curls of a young head 

That nestled on his knee. 

The child look'd up in the old man's face, 
Look'd up and laugh'd the while — 
Methought 'twas a beautiful sight to see 
The reflected light of its innocent glee 
(Like a sun-beam on a wither'd tree) 
In the old man's quiet smile. 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 3 

That simple group well harmonized 

With the surrounding scene-*- 
The old grey church, with its shadows deep, 
Where the dead seem'd hush'd in sounder sleep ; 
And all beyond, where the sun shone bright, 
Touching the tomb-stones with golden light, 

And the graves with emerald green. 

And a redbreast from the elms hard by 

His joyous matins sung ; 
That music wild contrasted well 
With the measured sound of the old church bell, 

In its low square tower that swung. 



I look'd, and listen'd, and listen d still, 

But word spake never a one ; 
And 1 started like one awakened 
From a trance, when my young companion said, 

" Let's walk till the bell has done/' 



So we turn'd away by the shady path 

That winds clown that pleasant hill— 
Leaving the church -yard to the right 



y 



4 THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

High up, it brought us soon in sight 
Of the clear stream, so sparkling bright, 
That turns old Hayward Mill. 

A lovely scene ! but not therefore 

Young Edmund's choice, I doubt ; 
No, rather that with barbed snare 
For sport he oft inveigled there 
The perch and speckled trout. 

Stopt was the busy mill-wheel now, 
Snareless the rippling brook, 

And up the finny people leapt ; 

As if they knew that danger slept 

And Edmund ! he had well nigh wept 
For lack of line and hook. 

" Look what a fish ! the same I'll swear 

That I hook'd yesterday- 
He's a foot long from head to tail — 
The fellow tugg'd like any whale, 
And broke my line — it's very true, 
Though you laugh, miss ! you always do 
At everything I say." — 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 5 

" Nay, gentle coz ! I did but smile — 

But — ivas he a foot long ?" — 
u Ay, more, a foot and half — near two — 
There, there, there's no convincing you 7 
One might as well to an old shoe 

Go whistle an old song." — 

" Gramercy, coz ! I only askM, 

In admiration strong." — 
" Ay, but you look at one so queer— 
Oh ! that I had my tackle here, 
You should soon see — well, never fear ; 

I'll have him yet ere long." — 

" Ay, doubtless — but, dear Edmund ! no w 
Be murd'rous thoughts far hence, 

This is a day of peace and rest, 

And should diffuse in every breast 
Its holy influence." — 

Such desultory chat we held, 

Still idly saunt 'ring on 
Towards the old crazy bridge, that led 
Across the stream by the mill-head — 

« Heyday !" said I, " 'tis gone !" 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

And gone it was, but planks and piles 

Lay there, a fresh-brought load, 
And, till a better bridge was made, 
Flat stones across the brook were laid, 

So one might pass dry-shod. 

One with firm foot and steady eye, 

Dry-shod might pass the brook- 
But now, upon the further side, 
A woman and a child we spied, 
And those slippery stones the woman eyed 
With vex'd and angry look. 

And the child stood there — a pretty boy, 

Some seven years old look'd he, 
Limber and lithe as a little fawn, 
And I marvell'd much that he sprang not on 
With a boy's activity. 

But his head hung down like a dew-bent flower, 

And he stood there helplessly ; 
And the woman (an old ill-favour d crone !) 
Scowl'd at him, and said, in a sharp cross tone > 

" You're always a plague to me ! ,; — 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

" What ails you, my little man ?" said I ; 

" Such a light free thing as you 
Should hound away like a nimble deer 
From stone to stone, and be over here 

Before one could well count two."— 

The child look'd up — to my dying day 

That look will haunt my mind. 
The woman look'd too, and she tuned her throat 
As she answer'd me, to a softer note, 

And, says she, " The poor thing's blind, 

" His father (who's dead) was my sister's son ; 

Last week his mother died too. 
He's but a weakly thing, you see, 
Yet the parish has put him upon me, 

Who am but ill to do. 

" And his mother made him more helpless still 

Than else he might have been, 
For she nursed him up like a little lamb, 
That in winter time has lost its dam ;— 

Such love was never seen ! 



8 THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

"To be sure he was her only one, 

A helpless thing, you see - r 
So she toil'd and toil'd to get him bread, 
And to keep him neat, 'twas her pride, she said- 
Well, 'tis a hard thing, now she's dead, 

To have him thrown on me. 

" And now we shall be too late for church, 

For he can't get over, not he ! 
I thought the old bridge did well enough 
But they're always at some alt 'ring ^stuf£ 

Hind'ring poor folks like we." 

I look'd about, but from my side 

Edmund was gone already, 
And with the child claspt carefully 
Across the stream, back bounded he, 

With firm foot, light and steady. 

" And tne woman," said I, " won't you help her too ? 

Look there she waits the while." — 
" Hang her, old cat ! if I do," quoth he, 
" To souse her into the midst 'twill be"— 

For my life I could not but smile. 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 9 

So we left her to cross as best she might, 
And I turn'd to the sightless child ; 
His old white hat was wound about 
With a rusty crape, and fair curls waved out 
On a brow divinely mild. 

And the tears still swam in his large blue eyes, 

And hung on his sickly cheek — 
Those eyes with their clouded vacancy, 
That looked towards, but not at me, 
Yet spoke to my heart more touchingly 

Than the brightest could ever speak. 

I took his little hand in mine, 

('Twas a delicate small hand,) 
And the poor thing soon crept close to me, 
With a timid familiarity, 

No heart could e'er withstand. 

By this time the woman had hobbled up — ■ 

" Ah, Goody ! what, safe ashore ?" 
Quoth Edmund — " I knew without help from me 
You'd paddle across — " Askance look'd she, 
But spake not a word, so in company 
We moved on to church all four. 



10 THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 

But I felt the child's hand, still held in mine, 

With a shrinking dread compress'd ; — 
" Do you love to go to church ?" I said — 
" Yes ;" and he hung down his little head, 
" But I love the churchyard best." — 

" The churchyard, my pretty boy ! — And why ? 

Come tell me why, and how ?" — 
" Because — because — " and the poor thing 
Sobb'd out the words half whispering — 

" 'Cause mammy is there now." — 

Feelings too deep for utterance 

ThrilTd me a moment's space, 
At last— " My little friend," said I, 
" She's gone to live with God on high, 

In Heaven, his dwelling-place. 

" And if you're good, and pray to Him, 

And tell the truth alway, 
And bear all hardships patiently, 
You'll go there too." — " But when ?" said he, 

« Shall I go there to-day ?"— 



THE BROKEN BRIDGE. 11 

" Nay — you must wait till God is pleased 

To call you to his rest." — 
" When will that be ?" he ask'd again. — 
" Perhaps not yet, my child." — " Oh ! then, 

I love the churchyard best." — 

And to the churchyard we were come, 
And close to the church door — 

And the little hand I held in mine, 

Still held, loath was I to resign ; 

And from that hour the face so mild, 

And the soft voice of that orphan child, 
Have haunted me evermore. 



[ 12 ] 



ON THE NEAR PROSPECT OF 
LEAVING HOME.— 1818. 



Farewell ! farewell, beloved home ! 

Haven of rest ! a long farewell. 
Where'er my weary footsteps roam ? 

With thee shall faithful mem'ry dwell. 

They tell me other bowers will rise 
As fair, in fancy's future view — 

They little think what tender ties, 
Dear home ! attach my heart to you. 

Their happy childhood has not playd, 
Like mine, beneath thy sheltering roof ; 

Thou hast not foster'd, in thy shade, 
Their after-years of happier youth. 



ON LEAVING HOME. 13 

They cannot know, they have not proved 
The sympathies that make thee dear — ■ 

They have not here possess'd and loved — 
They have not lost and sorrow'd here, 

In all around, they cannot see 

Relics of hopes, and joys o'ercast — 
They have not learnt to live like me 

On recollections of the past ; 

To watch (as misers watch their gold) 

Tree, shrub, or flower, (frail, precious trust !) 

Planted and rear'd in days of old, 

By hands now mouldering in the dust ; 

To sanctify peculiar places, 

Associated in mem'ry's glass, 
With circumstances, times, and faces, 

That like a dream before me pass. 

These are the feelings — this the band, 
Dear home ! that knits my heart to thee— 

No heart but mine can understand 
How strong that secret sympathy* 



14 ON LEAVING HOME. 

Therefore, of scenes more fair than thee. 
They kindly speak to soothe mine ear- 
Yes — fairer other scenes may be, 
But never any half so dear. 



C 15 ] 



SONNET.— 1818. 



Autumnal leaves and flow'rets ! ling'ring last — 
Pale sickly children of the waning year ! 
A lovelier race shall yet succeed ye here, 
When Nature (her long wintry torpor past) 
O'er the brown woods and naked earth doth cast 
Her venial mantle — From its prison cell, 
Through mould and bark, the struggling germ 
shall swell, 
Bright buds, and beauteous blossoms, following fast — - 
Oh ! I was wont a deep delight to taste, 

When the first primrose rear'd her modest head, 
And early violet on the wintry waste, 

The renovated soul of sweetness shed ! 
And they will wake again — And I shall be, 
Mine own beloved home ! far, far from them and thee ! 



C 16 ] 



SUNDAY EVENING. 



I sat last Sunday evening, 
From sunset even till night, 

At the open casement, watching 
The day's departing light. 

Such hours to me are holy, 
Holier than tongue can tell, 

They fall on my heart like dew 
On the parched heather-bell. 

The Sun had shone bright all day — 

His setting was brighter still, 
But there sprang up a lovely air 

As he dropt down the western hill. 

8 



SUNJ)AY EVENING. 17 

The fields and lanes were swarming 
With holy-day folks in their best, 

Released from their six days' cares 
By the seventh day's peace and rest. 

I heard the light-hearted laugh. 

The trampling of many feet — 
I saw them go merrily by, 

And to me the sight was sweet. 

There's a sacred soothing sweetness, 

A pervading spirit of bliss, 
Peculiar from all other times, 

In a Sabbath eve like this. 

Methinks, though I know not the day, 
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all 

Would tell me that Nature was keeping 
Some solemn festival, 

The steer and the steed in their pastures 

Lie down with a look of peace, 
As if they knew 'twas commanded 

That this day their labours should cease. , 
B 



o 



18 SUNDAY EVENING. 

The lark's vesper song is more thrilling 
As he mounts to bid Heaven good night ; 

The brook sings a quieter tune — 
The sun sets in lovelier light — 

The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers, 
Are tinged with more exquisite hues, 

More odorous incense from out them 
Steams up with the evening dews. 

So I sat last Sunday evening 

Musing on all these things, 
With that quiet gladness of spirit 

No thought of this world brings — 

I watch' d the departing glory, 
Till its last red streak grew pale, 

And Earth and Heaven were woven 
In Twilight's dusky veil. 

Then the lark dropt down to his mate 
By her nest on the dewy ground ; 

And the stir of human life 

Died awav to a distant sound — 



SUNDAY EVENING. 19 

All sounds died away — the light laugh — 
The far footstep — the merry call — 

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart 
Might have echoed a rose leaf's fall — - 

And, by little and little, the darkness 

Waved wider its sable wings, 
Till the nearest objects and largest 

Became shapeless confused things— 

And, at last, all was dark — then I felt 
A cold sadness steal over my heart, 

And I said to myself, " Such is life ! 
So its hopes and its pleasures depart ! 

" And when night comes — the dark night of age, 

What I'emaineth beneath the sun 
Of all that was lovely and loved ? 

Of all we have learnt and done ? 

" When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear 
To sweet music grows dull and cold, 

And the fancy burns low, and the heart — - 
Oh, Heavens ! can the heart grow old ? 



20 SUNDAY EVENING. 

" Then, what remaineth of life 

But the lees, with bitterness fraught ? 

What then?". But I check'd as it rose, 

And rebuked that weak, wicked thought. 

And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo ! 

An answer was written on high 
By the finger of God himself, 

In the depths of the dark blue sky. 

There appeared a sign in the east — 
A bright, beautiful, fixed star ! 

And I look'd on its steady light 
Till the evil thoughts fled afar — 

And the lesser lights of Heaven 
Shone out with their pale soft rays, 

Like the calm unearthly comforts 
Of a good man's latter days — 

And there came up a sweet perfume 
From the unseen flowers below, 

Like the savour of virtuous deeds, 
Of deeds done long ago ; 



SUNDAY EVENING. 21 

Like the mem'ry of well- spent time — 
Of things that were holy and dear — 

Of friends, a departed this life 
In the Lord's faith and fear." 

So the burthen of darkness was taken 
From my soul, and my heart felt light ; 

And I laid me down to slumber 
With peaceful thoughts that night. 



[ 22 ] 



THE MARINER'S HYMN, 



Launch thy bark, Mariner ! 

Christian ! God speed thee- 
Let loose the rudder bands — 

Good angels lead thee — 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come — 
Steer thy course steadily, 

Christian ! steer home ! 

Look to the weather-bow, 
Breakers are round thee — 

Let fall the plummet now, 
Shallows may ground thee 



THE MARINER'S HYMN, 23 

Reef in the foresail, there ! — 

Hold the helm fast ! — 
So — let the vessel wear — 

There swept the blast. 

" What of the night, watchman ? 
What of the night ?" 

— " Cloudy — all quiet — 
No land yet — all's right !" 

Be wakeful — be vigilant- 
Danger may be 

At an hour when all seemeth 
Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast ? 

Clear out the hold — 
Hoist up thy merchandize — 

Heave out thy gold ; — 
There — let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights — 
Hurra ! the harbour's near — 

Lo ! the red lights ! 



*M THE MARINER^ HYMN 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer. 

Straight for the high land- 
Crowd all thy canvass on, 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian I cast anchor now— 

Heaven is thy home ! 



C 25 ] 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON READING TASSO'S LIFE, 



Rest, weary spirit, from thy labours past — 

Thy doubts, thy wrongs, thy painful wanderings o'er, 
Through troubled seas, thy bark has reached at last 

The quiet haven of a friendly shore. 
Yes — " after death" — around thy pallid brow 

They wreathed the laurel, long, too long denied, 
For which, in all the ambitious ardent glow 

Of conscious worth, thy once proud spirit sigh'd. 
But when the mortal scene was closing fast 

Around thee, Tasso ! on that profferd crown 
What cold, contemptuous glances did'st thou cast ! 

Earth could no longer chain the spirit down 
That, fixing on a heavenly crown its trust, 
Bequeathe the earthly to its mouldering dust. 



[ 2G ] 



SONNET. 



AViiat if the tale was true, (as some believe,) 

That Tasso's love to Leonora gave ? 
Oh happy Leonora, to receive 

Such fame-conferring vows from such a slave ! 
Darling of many hearts ! Of short-lived fame 

The favoured minion ! born in courts to shine ! 
Yet, but for him, for his illustrious name, 

What deathless annals had recorded thine ? 
These are thy triumphs, Genius ! flames that burn 

With bright'ning glory through the mists of time — 
When earth-born spirits to the earth return, 

Thine, mounting from thine ashes, soars sublime, 
And where they moulder ; Contemplation's eye 
With awful rev'rence dwells, when kings forgotten, lie. 



[ 27 ] 



CHILDHOOD. 



Almost the happiest visitings of which my mind is 
at any time sensible, are those reminiscences of child- 
hood, streaming in such vivid beauty across the che- 
quered pathway of mature life, that frequently the past 
— the very past — seems recalled into actual existence, 
and I feel and think, and weep and smile again, with 
the heart of a child ! Ay, and I would not exchange 
my sensations at such moments for half the pleasures 
(so called) that, as we advance in life, froth and 
sparkle in our mingled chalice. I am sure the fre- 
quent recurrence of such feelings is beneficial to the 
human heart — that it helps to purify — to re-organize, 
if I may so express myself, its best affections, so 
early repressed in the cold atmosphere of worldly 
intercourse, restoring a sort of youthful elasticity to 
its nobler powers, and, at the same time, a meek and 



28 CHILDHOOD. 

child-like sense of entire dependence — no longer, in- 
deed, on the tender earthly guardians of our helpless 
infancy, but on our Father which is in heaven — their 
Father and ours — in whose sight we are all alike 
helpless, alike children. 

Our reminiscences of youth are not half so delight- 
ful. In the first place, they are more associated with 
persons and circumstances, than with God and Nature, 
and with our earliest, ever our best friends. And who 
has stepped on a few, a very few years beyond those 
of childhood, without having been made sensible, by 
painful experience, that this world is not one of un- 
mixed happiness ? Disappointments arise, like little 
clouds at first, too soon perhaps congregating into one 
heavy mass. The things, so delightful in prospect, 
prove on attainment unsatisfactory, or worse than un- 
satisfactory ; yea, gall and wormwood to us ; or, lead- 
ing us on, like marsh-fires, tlirough bog and briar, 
over rough ways and even, they treacherously vanish 
from our sight, leaving us spent and heart-sick in the 
vain pursuit. Or say we are every way successful — 
that Providence rewards our strenuous and honour- 
able perseverance by the attainment of its object, 



CHILDHOOD. 29 

and that the object, when obtained, gratifies our most 
sanguine anticipations ; still, is the fruition perfect ? 
Are there no specks upon the ripened fruit — no eat- 
ing canker in its core ? Are none missing from among 
the dear ones who should rejoice in our success ? Are 
no eyes closed in the long sleep, that should have 
sparkled in the reflected light of our happiness ? Is 
no tongue silenced in the grave, that would have 
blessed God for blessing us ? Are they all there ? 
Oh, heaven ! how little to be hoped ! And if but 
one is missing, what shall replace the void ? who shall 
say the fruition is perfect ? 

But suppose we are so peculiarly favoured — it is 
an awful exemption — as to escape common cares 
and crosses, and even to arrive at full maturity, still 
fenced about and sheltered by the guardian trees 
under whose shadow we grew up ; suppose all this 
to be, yet much will have occurred in the advance 
of intellect, and in the natural course of things, to 
temper the exuberance of youthful happiness. Yes ! 
in the advance of intellect ; for shall we not have ac- 
quired the knowledge of good and evil, and that by 
sin " came death into the world, and all our woe ?" 



30 CHILDHOOD. 

And ill the natural course of things — for, hy the time 
Ave are men and women, what alterations must have 
taken place in the persons, and things, and scenes, 
all woven together in our hearts by the magic of 
early association — by the time we are men and 
women, how many are gone down into the dust of 
those humble faithful friends, whose kind familiar 
faces beamed ever with such indulgent fondness on 
our happy childhood ? Old servants, who waited 
perhaps on our parents' parents — whose zealous at- 
tachment to them, having passed on as an inheritance 
(and there are few more valuable) to their immediate 

descendants, had become towards their offspring 

towards ourselves, an almost idolatrous affection. 
Grey-headed labourers, whose good-natured indul- 
gence had so patiently suffered us to derange their 
operations in the garden or the hayfield, with the 
grave mimicry of laborious exertion. Some grateful 
pensioner of our family — some neat old widow, who 
was wont to welcome us to her little cottage with 
a hoarded offering of fruit or flowers, or maybe a 
little rabbit, white as the driven snow, or a youna 
squirrel, or a dormouse, poor captives of the wood 



CHILDHOOD. 31 

devoted victims of our tormenting fondness ! Or the 
permitted intruder — privileged, as it were, by long 
sufferance, to claim the comforts of a draught of 
warm beer, and a meal of broken victuals by the 
kitchen fire ; half mendicant, half pedlar, his back 
bowed down by the heavy pack, from which it was 
almost as inseparable as is that of a camel from its 
natural protuberance — a few white hairs thinly sprin- 
kled over a deeply-furrowed brow, and straggling 
across a cheek whose ruddy tinge, still glowing 
through the dusky complexion peculiar to his people, 
told of free and constant communion with the winds 
of heaven, as they blow in their healthful freshness 
over moor and mountain, headland and sea-coast — 
and the eye deep set under that shaggy ridge of eye- 
brow — The eye, with all its quick perceptions, its 
keen discrimination, its shrewd meanings, its habi- 
tual watchfulness, its black sparkling lustre, almost 
undimmed as yet by sixty and five years of toil and 
travel, over the roughest ways of this world's rough 
thoroughfare ! And then that venerable beard ! so 
white and silky, that the old man stroked ever and 
anon with fond complacency, as it flowed with pa- 



32 CHILDHOOD. 

triarchal majesty over his ample chest ! And the 
great loose wrapping garment of brown camlet, 
girt about with a broad leather girdle, to which were 
appended two long pouches, containing spices and 
aromatic gums, " precious," would the hoary Israel- 
ite aver, (and he was ever wont to produce those 
fragrant wares with a mien of peculiar importance, a 
sort of mysterious dignity,) " precious as those brought 
into Judea by the Queen of the South, when she 
came to behold the glory and listen to the wisdom of 
King Solomon." 

At such moments, doubtless, the ancient splen- 
dour of his nation swam, as in a glass, before the 
mental vision of the old Hebrew, wafted, as it were, 
towards him by the peculiar odours of those rich spi- 
ces, and he thought of the beauty of Jerusalem, and 
the magnificence of the Temple, and of the riches of 
Solomon, the gold and silver and ivory, the apes and 
peacocks, and the precious almug trees — and then 
it might be, that his bearing became loftier for a mo- 
ment, and he forgot that all these things had passed 
away — that his kindred and his tribe and his people 
were scattered over the face of the earth, a despised 

8 



CHILDHOOD. 33 

and persecuted remnant, " a hissing and a reproach" 
amongst all nations, and that he himself was poor, 
old, and houseless, scoffed at and reviled by the ig- 
norant, the wanton, and the heartless, and that the 
very children, the little village children, towards 
whom his kind old heart yearned tenderly, fled in 
terror from " the wicked Jew," or annoyed him as 
he passed with their puny insults. 

How unintentionally (from attempting a slight 
sketch, a mere outline of generalities) have I been be- 
trayed into the delineation of thy portrait, old Isaac ! 
Well — be it so— It were worth tracing by the pen- 
cil of an abler artist — I see thee now — even such as 
I have described thee — luxuriously established in a 
warm corner of our wide kitchen fire-place — thy 
huge, dusky, knotted staff slipped through the straps 
of that lumbering pack, and the triple knot of the 
red bundle, both of which are carefully deposited on 
the bench beside thee. 

The faithful companion of thy wanderings, the 
rough-haired, fox-coloured, bandy-legged cur, with 
one ear cocked up so knowingly, posted between 
thy knees, and from thence intently eyeing that at- 



34 CHILDHOOD. 

tractive platter, on which the kitchen damsel is heap- 
ing up a meal of savoury scraps, whereof he hopes 
incontinently to partake with thee. And thine own 
eyes, friend Isaac, are not less curiously intent in 
noting the preparation of that same olio — and ear- 
nestly dost thou enjoin the good-humoured lass, who 
is preparing the regale for her old acquaintance, to 
take special heed, that there entereth no scrap of the 
forbidden thing — no portion of swine's flesh amongst 
the ingredients thereof — Well thou art assured that 
kind-hearted maiden will not knowingly cheat the old 
man, or make light of the Jew's conscientious scruples. 
But all are not so kind to thee ; and, if thou wert 
given to complaint, many a tale could'st thou tell, that 
might kindle on Christian cheeks a burning blush 
for the indignities heaped on the unoffending Jew. 
— Once — (the smart of that bitter jest being yet re- 
cent) — thou didst relate how, being sore spent with 
a long day's travel through deep and wintry ways, 
thou earnest at nightfall to a little village alehouse, 
wherein the hearth blazed invitingly, and good en- 
tertainment was promised to the weary traveller — 
so, blessing the God of Abraham who had brought 



CHILDHOOD. 35 

thee to that safe abiding place, thou enteredst there- 
in, and taking thy place at humble distance from 
the Christians assembled round the hearth, wert con- 
tent to feel, even so far off, the kindly warmth of the 
glowing peat and crackling faggots flashing against 
thy weather-beaten face, and the outspread palms of 
thine old withered hands. — And when all were ser- 
ved, thy humble meal was set before thee, respect- 
ing which thou hadst not failed to whisper the pro- 
hibitory charge with unoffending meekness, and thou 
wert about to break thy long fast, with cheered and 
grateful heart — when lo ! the well-known sounds 
broke forth beside thee — the sound of derision and 
mockery, and thou wert bid " be honest for once, if 
a Jew could be honest — and taste and own the de- 
licious flavour of the pork meat, wherewithal thy 
mess was daintily seasoned." — " Dat vast hard to 
bear, for me vast very hungry," said Isaac, when he 
had told his little tale of wrongs ; " but de Jew mosh 
bear all — so, me did eat my dry bread, and blesh 
God, and forgif dem." 

Ah, cunning Isaac ! well choosest thou thy time 
to display thy store of rare and curious merchandize ! 



36 CHILDHOOD. 

A glance of that remnant of edging (just enough for 
a cap) and the hope of wheedling it from thee a bar- 
gain, will be worth to thee a mess like Benjamin's ! 
— And that other maiden — how courteously she 
gives into thine old bony, vein-embossed hand, that 
comforting cup of warm, white-frothing ale I her eyes 
wandering the while towards that beautiful gold 
brooch — " real gold, set round with real rubies, that 
looks as if it were made on purpose to hold her 
sweetheart's hair, the honest price whereof should 
be ten shillings," but which, for her sake, " for the 
sake of her pretty face, God bless it !" thou wilt let 
her have for half-a-crown. Happy girl ! — But there 
stands one, a human relic of old-fashioned times, 
who frowns reproval of such vain extravagance. — 
When she began the world, " a young servant girl 
thought of putting out her little savings to interest, 
or getting together a few creditable things, a good 
bed at least, and a chest of drawers, against she came 
to settle and have a family ; but now, a silly wench, 
without a good smock to her back, will spend a 
month's wages in a pack of trumpery, fit for nothing 
but to figure out a puppet-show Madam." 



CHILDHOOD, 37 

Ah ? Goody ! those were good old times, but we 
live in wicked new ones, and Isaac's lures triumph 
over thy rhetoric ; — a little ungrateful of thee, by the 
by, to employ it to his detriment — when did he ever 
forget — at which of his annual visitations, to reple- 
nish thy mull gratis with a portion of his best rap- 
pee? — that which thou lovest — uncontaminated with 
aught of modern outlandish intermixture? — and even 
now — placable Isaac ! — see, he tenders the accus- 
tomed tribute ; — and more — he has not forgotten thy 
child — the child of thy master's child — thy darling 
— the spoiled darling of thine age — she whom thou 
religiously believest has not her fellow among all the 
children of this degenerate age — a scion from the 
true old stock. 

Isaac also arrogates to himself a peculiar interest in 
thy darling's fate — for did he not foretell the impor- 
tant event of her first appearance in this nether sphere? 
About a month before her entrance thereupon, (en- 
lightened, probably, by pretty certain indications,) 
the old man having transacted his annual traffic, 
wound up his thanks and his farewell to the family, 
with the oracular remark, that " next time old Isaac 



38 CHILDHOOD. 

should call, dere would be one fine young shentel- 
mans, or beautiful little missy" — the latter, he in- 
clined to think, for reasons best known to himself, 
(the old man pretended to some degree of occult 
science,) and he would be sure to bring a present for 
" de little lady." And, faithful to his promise, the 
next winter old Isaac (whose first inquiry was for 
" little Missy," and there she was, sure enough) put 
into her baby arms a little artificial rose-tree in its 
pot of painted card-paper, and the kind old man be- 
stowed a blessing with his gift, which latter was, he 
said, the work of his " own shild — his good daugh- 
ter, Leah !" Isaac had then a little home, in some 
naiTow alley of a large distant city — and that duti- 
ful child abode there, and her loving welcome made 
it a paradise to the old man, in the short and far-off 
intervals of his lonely wanderings. Once he return- 
ed at the appointed time, but there was no one to 
receive him — the door was locked — the shutter closed 
— no smoke arose from the chimney — his Leah was 
cold in her grave. From that time, Isaac was lite- 
rally and in good sooth " a stranger and a pilgrim 
upon eartli." But he loved to speak of his " dear 



CHILDHOOD. 39 

Leah ! his good shild" to those who could feel for 
the poor Jew, and especially to his old friend — the 
faithful nurse of little Missy — the patroness of all 
who were afflicted or distressed, or borne down by 
oppression or unmerited contumely. 

Well — old Isaac has replenished her little snuff- 
box, and she is curiously inspecting his store of knit- 
ting-needles and nutmeg-graters — and there, close 
behind her — now creeping closer still, now slipping 
round, half hidden by Goody's apron — peeps " little 
Missy" — for the sound of a well-known voice has 
lured her from her lessons, (no very difficult seduc- 
tion,) and she has stolen into the kitchen — the for- 
bidden precincts — and she has spied out her old 
friends, Isaac and his dog ; — and in a moment she 
stands beside the old man's knee, and her tiny hands 
are patting Tinker's head, and her merry tongue is 
bidding both welcome — both in a breath — Isaac and 
Tinker ; and her young eyes are roving curiously 
towards the well-known pack, from which many a 
little watch, many pretty box and pincushion is sure 
to be purchased annually, in compliance with the 
baby-longing, seldom disciplined by denial. 



40 CHILDHOOD. 

And great joy and profound admiration doth old 
Isaac manifest at the sight of " little Missy/' — pro- 
found admiration at her wonderful growth, albeit, 
she might, at eight years old, pair for stature with 
the tiniest elf that waits in the court circle of the 
Fairy Queen, under the broad shadow of a fern leaf. 
And Isaac has not forgotten " little Missy" — and lo ! 
from an inner recess of that mysterious cabinet, forth 
draws he sundry coloured cards covered with cotton, 
and curiously gilted with rows of shining — lances 
are they ? — spears to transfix larks ?. — or spits to 
roast them ? Neither, in truth, but harmless needles 
(such, seemingly, as were used in Brobdignag) — va- 
luable implements of housewifery, fraught with pe- 
culiar virtues, and not elsewhere to be obtained for 
love or money. So affirmeth Isaac, on presenting 
one, (slowly extracted from the precious file,) his 
annual offering to " little Missy ;" — and " little 
Missy ' graciously accepts the same — graciously and 
gratefully — she means to be very grateful, implicitly 
believing in the intrinsic value of that costly gift, 
however puzzled in her own mind as to what pur- 
pose she shall apply it — " Isaacs first present," — 



CHILDHOOD. 41 

the first year of her birth, (which was carefully set 
by for her till she was old enough to have it in her 
own keeping,) " was a much prettier present, she 
thinks. Not, she dares say, more valuable, because 
Isaac says the needles are worth so much ! — but she 
does not much love needles, — she always loses them, 
or pricks her fingers with them, — and she hates sew- 
ing; but the little sham rose-tree was a beautiful 
thing ! — and she has got it still, standing in a flower- 
pot just like life, — with moss, real moss, about the 
roots, and a full-blown rose, with ever so many buds, 
all growing upon one stem, with their green leaves 
about them ! — Oh, that was a beautiful present ! — 
and dear old Isaac was so good to bring it for her ! 
— and she will love Isaac and Tinker as long as she 
lives ! 

And Nursie will love them too ; — ay, Isaac and 
Tinker, — because her darling patronises both, and 
because Isaac has the sense to see all the darling's 
perfections. And, " after all, he is an honest old 
soul, — and to be sure that edging is cheap, she must 
own that, — and if the brooch is gold, — —and she 
herself does not care if she buys some trifle for old 



42 CHILDHOOD. 

acquaintance' sake." Ah, cunning Isaac 1 most per- 
suasive of pedlars ! — What female heart can with- 
stand the temptations of thy pack, and of thy honied 
tongue ? 

After many annual visits paid and welcomed, a 
year came, and passed away, — a whole year, — and 
old Isaac came not. About January had been the 
usual time of his periodical apparition, — about the 
middle, or toward the latter end of January. Ge- 
nerally, it chanced that there was snow upon the 
ground ; and so, when snow began to fall about that 
season, it was looked on as a herald of the old mans 
approach ; — and hitherto he had not failed to pre- 
sent himself at the door, within a few days of the 
usual period, swinging off the snow-flakes from his 
old hat, and slipping aside his cumbrous pack, in 
full assurance of the admission never denied him at 

. It was pleasant to note that humble 

confidence of courteous welcome. It is pleasant to 
mark the least link of that great chain, which draws, 
or should draw, together all Christian hearts, by the 
reciprocation of kindly offices, and ennobling grati- 



CHILDHOOD. 43 

tude, and by a sense of entire and general depend- 
ence on the universal Benefactor. 

But in the year I spoke of, January came, and 
the snow fell, and almost the whole stock of tapes, 
and bobbins, and needles, was expended in the house ; 
and from day to day its renewal was deferred, for 
such small wares had from " auld lang syne" been 
yearly purchased of Isaac, and " one would not but 
wait a little while for the poor old man." But he 
was waited for more than " a little while," and very 
hard weather set in. The river was frozen all over, 
and the country people walked over it to market, 
and the boys built a house on it with great blocks 
of ice. The little birds came famishing to the win- 
dow-sills, and even into the dwellings of man ; for 
the running brooks became steel, and the soft earth 
iron, and the snow, — the hard, glittering snow, — lay 
deep all over the country ; in many places choking 
up the high-roads, and covering the tops of the 
highest hedges ; and in less frequented ways, — over 
commons, and wastes, and in coppice dingles, and 
in the sinuous clefts of the hills, — not an indication 
of track, or pathway, not a human foot-mark, nor a 



44 CHILDHOOD. 

single hoof-print, was discernible ; and by those in- 
tricate ways, connected with the small hamlets, 
where he earned on his yearly traffic, it was old 
Isaac's wont to travel, — and now he came not! — 
And, " Poor Isaac !" — " Poor old soul !" — was of- 
ten sorrowfully uttered in the family : — " What can 
have become of him ? The old man grows feeble, 
too, and the days are so short !" — And inquiring 
eyes were strained, early and late, in quest of his 
tall, solitary figure, towards the quarter where it 
might be expected to appear, breaking the dreary 
horizontal line, where, reversing the general effect 
of nature, the black sky was seen descending, like a 
leaden vault, to the verge of the white desert be- 
neath. 

Early and late, anxious looks were sent in quest 
of the aged wanderer, into the dark cheerless morn- 
ing, and more earnestly still into the lowering twi- 
light. And if the dogs barked after nightfall, and an 
approaching step was heard, willing feet hastened to 
the door, and ready hands withdrew the bolts, and 
glad tongues were tuning to exclaim, " Come in, 
come in, good Isaac !" But January passed, and Fe- 



CHILDHOOD. 45 

bruary slipt away. The snow melted from off the 
face of the earth, the unfrozen brooks ran rapidly 
again, and the little birds sang merrily, for sweet 
Spring was come, but the old man came not. He 
never came again. , 

He was long remembered — long spoken of — long 
missed by every individual of the family. But I 
missed him most, and remembered him longest. 
Peculiarly, even at that early age, a creature of ha- 
bit, inanimate things themselves were playfellows to 
me, a solitary child. Clinging fondly to all I knew 
and loved, and to all early associations, it pained me 
to miss the most insignificant object I had been long 
accustomed to behold ; and scarcely a leaf or flower 
dropt from its stalk but I did miss it, and mourn that 
I should see it no more. And " Poor old Isaac ! 
Poor Tinker !" — Many Januarys passed, and for many 
after seasons the snow fell upon the earth, and melt- 
ed from off it, before I ceased, at sight of the first 
flakes, to exclaim thus in mournful recollections.— 
And this was sorrcnv — real sorrow — the beginning of 
sorrow, and therefore (trivial as some may deem it) 
.a touching and an awful thing to contemplate. Who 



46 CHILDHOOD. 

would gaze without a thrill of intense feeling on the 
few first drops that ooze slowly through the strain- 
ing timbers of some mighty dike, previous to the 
bursting up of its imprisoned waters ? And who can 
look but with deep and tender emotion on the first 
prelusive tears that escape through the unclosing 
flood-gates of human sorrow ? 

Yes, — by the time we start forward on the ca- 
reer of youth, if even our nearest and dearest friends 
still encircle us, how many of those persons to whom 
we were linked by habit or affection, (though in far 
less powerful bands,) must have finished their al- 
lotted race ! Even irrational creatures, — the very 
animals that were wont to range about the house 
and fields, — many of them perhaps our familiar 
friends and playmates. Not one of these can have 
dropt down into the dust unmissed ; and in the world 
we are entering, how many of the objects we shall 
most eagerly pursue, may fail to afford us half the 
gratification we have known in those childish inno- 
cent attachments ! Our very pleasures, — our most 
perfect enjoyments in mature life, bring with them 
a certain portion of disquietude, — a craving after 



CHILDHOOD. 47 

fresher, or higher enjoyments, — an anxious calcu- 
lation on the probable stability of those already ours, 
— a restless anticipation of the future. And there, 
in that very point, consists the great barrier separa- 
ting youth from childhood. The child enjoys every- 
thing that is, abstractedly from all reference to the 
past, all inquiry into the future. He feels that he 
is happy, and satisfied with that blest perception, 
searches not into the nature, or probable duration 
of his felicity. 

There may be, — there are in after life, intervals of 
far sublimer happiness ; for if Thought, if Know- 
ledge bringeth a curse with it, casting as it were the 
taint of corruption and the shadow of death over all 
that in this world seemed fair, and good, and last- 
ing, and perfect, reason, enlightened by revelation, 
and sustained by faith, hath power to lift up that 
gloomy veil, and to see beyond it " the glory which 
shall be revealed hereafter." — But, with the excep- 
tion of such moments, — when the heart communes 
with Heaven, — when our thoughts are in a manner 
like the angels ascending and descending on those 
bright beams of celestial intercourse, — what feelings of 



48 CHILDHOOD. 

the human mind can be thought so nearly to resemble 
those of the yet guiltless inhabitants of Eden, as the 
sensations of a young and happy child ? It is true, 
he has been told and taught to read the story of 
" man's first disobedience and his fall." He has been 
told that there is such -a thing as death, and that it 
happeneth to all men. It has even been explained 
to him, with the simple illustrations best calculated 
to impress the awful subject on his young mind; 
and his earnest eyes have filled with tears, at hear- 
ing that such or such a dear friend, on whose knee 
he has been wont to sit, whose neck he has often 
clasped so lovingly, is taken away out of the world, and 
buried under the earth in the churchyard. His eyes 
will fill with tears, — his little bosom will heave with 
sobs at this dismal hearing, and for a few brief mo- 
ments his grief refuseth to be comforted. But then 
he is told that the dear friend is gone to God, — 
that his spirit is gone to God to live for ever, and 
be always happy in Heaven, — and that if he is a good 
child he will some day go to Heaven also, and live 
always with him there. 

He listens to this with the same joyful eagerness 



CHILDHOOD. 49 

as if he were promised to go the next day in a fine 
coach, to spend the whole day with the friend whose 
absence, more than whose death, his little heart de- 
plores so bitterly. He cannot conceive death. He 
cannot yet be made sensible that it hath entered into 
the world with sin, and is amalgamated with all that 
therein is. He sports at morning among the flow- 
ers of the field, unmindful that they shall fade and 
perish in the evening, and that the place thereof shall 
know them no more. He revels in the bright Sum- 
mer sunset, — in the warm noonday of Autumn, — 
without anticipating the approach of Winter. He 
leaps up joyously into the arms of venerable old age, 
without glancing onwards towards the almost cer- 
tainty, that that grey head must be laid in the dust, 
ere his own bright ringlets cluster with darker shade 
over a manly forehead. 

There is in childhood a holy ignorance, a beauti- 
ful credulity, a peculiar sanctity, that one cannot 
contemplate without something of the reverential 
feeling with which one should approach beings of a 
celestial nature. The impress of the divine nature 
is, as it were, fresh on the infant spirit, — fresh and 

D 



50 CHILDHOOD. 

unsullied by contact with this withering world. One 
trembles lest an impure breath should dim the clear- 
ness of its bright mirror. And how perpetually must 
those, who are in the habit of contemplating child- 
hood — of studying the characters of little children, 
feel, and repeat to their own hearts, " Of such is the 
kingdom of Heaven 1" Ay, which of us, of the wisest 
amongst us, may not stoop to receive instruction 
and rebuke from the example of a little child ? 

Which of us, by comparison with its sublime sim- 
plicity, its adorable ingenuousness, has not reason 
to blush for the littleness, — the insincerity, — the 
worldliness, — the degeneracy of his own? How often 
has the innocent remark, the artless question, the 
natural acuteness of a child, called up into older 
cheeks a blush of accusing consciousness ! 

How often might the prompt, candid, unqualify- 
ing, honourable decision of an infant, in some ques- 
tion of right or wrong, shame the hesitating, calcu- 
lating evasiveness of mature reason ! " Why do you 
say so, if it is not true ?" — " You must not keep 
that, for it is not yours." — " If I do this, or that, it 
will make God angry>" are remarks I have heard 



V 



CHILDHOOD, 51 

from tJie lips of " babes and sucklings ;" the first in 
particular, that probing question, to the no small 
embarrassment of some who should have been their 
teachers ! 

When sick and weary in heart and spirit of this 
world's pomps and vanities, — its fatiguing glare, — 
its feverish excitement, — its treacherous hollo wness, 
— its vapid pleasures and artificial tastes, — how re- 
freshing it is to flee back in thought to the time 
when, with the most exquisite capability of enjoy- 
ment, we were satisfied with the most simple ob- 
jects of interest ! It is incomprehensible to me how 
any after-scenes can ever efface the impression of 
those early pleasures. For my own part, I am not 
ashamed to repeat, that some of the happiest mo- 
ments of my present existence are those, when some 
trifling incident calls up former thoughts and feel- 
ings, renewing as it were within me the heart of a 
child. Surely many there are must feel with me, — 
must enjoy at times this renovation of the spirit in 
its early freshness ! They (to them alone I address 
myself) will comprehend the thrilling recollections 
with which, in my saunter round the garden, I stop 



52 CHILDHOOD. 

to contemplate the little patch of ground, once my 
exclusive property, where flowers and weeds, vege- 
tables and young timber trees, were crammed in to- 
gether with covetous industry and zeal, all improvi- 
dent of the future. They will understand, why the 
fairest flowers of the garden or the greenhouse are 
often discarded from my hand or my bosom, to make 
way for a wild rose, a harebell, or a field orcas, — 
treasures accessible to me, of which I might at plea- 
sure rifle the hedges and the meadows, when the 
cultured darlings of Flora were forbidden sweets, or 
sparingly yielded, and carefully gathered for me, a 
restriction fatally diminishing in my eyes the value 
of their coveted beauties. They will understand, 
(how pleasant it is to feel one's self understood, and 
alas, how rare !) why, to this day, my eye watches 
with tender interest, my ear drinks in with pleased 
attention, the familiar approach, the abrupt song of 
the domestic Robin, — not only because he is the 
acknowledged friend of man, and a sweet warbler 
when the general voice of song has ceased amongst 
our groves, — but because the time has been, when 
I looked upon the eloquent-eyed bird with a tender 



CHILDHOOD. 53 

veneration almost awful, firmly believing, as I be- 
lieved in my own existence, every syllable of that 
pathetic history, " the Babes in the Wood." How 
the false guardian, the unnatural uncle, having de- 
coyed those pretty innocent creatures into the depths 
of the dark forest, left them, without food, to perish 
there ; and how they wandered about for many, 
many days, living on hips, and haws, and wild 
bramble-berries, (delicious food, I thought, if one 
could have had enough !) — till at last, growing weak 
and weary, their poor feet pricked and bleeding 
with thorns, and their tender limbs bruised and torn 
amongst the bushes, they laid themselves down at 
the foot of an old mossy oak, — their little arms about 
each other's neck — their soft cheeks pressed close 
together, — and so fell asleep, and never woke again, 
but lay there day after day, stiff and cold, two little 
pale corses ; and how Robin Redbreast — pious Robin 
Redbreast ! — hopped about them, and watched them 
sorrowfully, with his large dark eyes " of human 
meaning;" and how he brought dry leaves in his 
bill, one by one, and strewed them so thickly as to 
cover up from sight at last the faces and forms of 



54 CHILDHOOD. 

the dead children. — There must be who have be- 
lieved as I believed ; who have wept as I wept, at 
the relation of that mournful history. They will, per- 
haps, also remember, as I do, to have held in their 
hands the pretty speckled insect, the Lady Bird, 
and to have addressed to it, as it prepared to fly, 
the half sportive, half serious warning, " Lady Bird, 
Lady Bird ! fly away home ; your house is on fire, 
your children will burn !" — But possibly even they 
will laugh at my confession, that I had a sort of 
vague, mysterious idea of some real meaning (intel- 
ligible to the beautiful insect) being couched in my 
metrical warning ! And they will laugh still more 
unrestrainedly when I avow, that I have often shud- 
dered, with superstitious horror, when the nurse- 
maid, on seeing me pull the small heart-shaped pods 
of the white chickweed, has startled me with the 
vulgar saying, " Ah, naughty child ! you've pluck- 
ed your mother's heart out !" 

Be it as it may ; — I still, even to this hour, con- 
nect with those trivial things — those nursery tales — 
those senseless sayings — the recollection of mental 
impressions so vivid, so delicious, and occasionally 



CHILDHOOD. 55 

so painful, yet secretly and intently dwelt on, with 
a strange kind of infatuation, — especially those feel- 
ings of enthusiastic affection to particular individuals 
I was far too shy to express in half their glowing 
warmth, — and those vague, dreamy, superstitious 
reveries, and awfully delightful terrors, that al- 
ways made me court solitude and darkness, though 
the sound of a falling leaf, or a nibbling mouse, 
would at such times set my heart beating audibly, 
and, in the stillness and blackness of night, my very 
breathing would seem impeded, and I have closed 
my eyelids, and kept them fast shut for hours, fear- 
ing to encounter the sight of some grisly phantom ; 
then opened them in sudden desperation, and in the 
expectation of seeing — I knew not what. I still, 
even to this hour, at sight of many insignificant ob- 
jects, recall to mind so vividly what were formerly 
my feelings associated with such, that the interme- 
diate space between past and present seems in a 
manner annihilated, and I forget my actual self in 
the little happy being, whose heart and fancy luxu- 
riated in a world of beauty and happiness, such as 



56 CHILDHOOD. 

the most inspired dream of poet or philosopher has 
never yet pourtrayed. 

The world of a child's imagination is the creation 
of a far holier spell than hath been ever wrought by 
the pride of learning, or the inspiration of poetic 
fancy. Innocence, that thinketh no evil ; ignorance, 
that apprehendeth none ; hope, that hath experienced 
no blight; love, that suspecteth no guile. These 
are its ministering angels ! — these wield a wand of 
power, making this earth a paradise ! — Time, hard, 
rigid teacher ! — Reality, rough, stern reality ! — 
World, cold, heartless world ! — that ever your sad 
experience, your sombre truths, your killing cold, 
your withering sneers, should scare those gentle spi- 
rits from their holy temple ! — And wherewith do ye 
replace them ? With caution, that repulseth confi- 
dence ; with doubt, that repelleth love ; with reason, 
that dispelleth illusion ; with fear, that poisoneth en- 
joyment; in a word, with knowledge, — that fatal 
fruit, the tasting whereof, at the first onset, cost us 
Paradise ! 

And the tree of knowledge, — transplanted to this 
barren soil, together with its scanty blossoms, — doth 



CHILDHOOD. 57 

it not bring forth thorns abundantly ? And of the 
fruits that ripen, — have any yet ripened to perfec- 
tion ? — what hand hath ever plucked unscathed ? 

Blessed be He who hath placed within our reach 
that other tree, once guarded by the flaming sword 
of the cherubim, (now no longer forbidden,) where- 
of, whoever hungereth, may taste and live ! 



[ 58 ] 



" IT IS NOT DEATH." 



It is not Death — it is not Death, 

From which I shrink with coward fear ; 
It is, that I must leave behind 

All I love here. 

It is not Wealth — it is not Wealth, 
That I am loth to leave behind ; 
Small store to me (yet all I crave) 
Hath fate assign'd. 

It is not Fame — it is not Fame, 

From which it will be pain to part ; 
Obscure my lot, — but mine was still 
An humble heart. 



" IT IS NOT DEATH." 59 

It is not Health — it is not Health, 

That makes me fain to linger here ; 
For I have languish' d on in pain 

This many a year. 

It is not Hope — it is not Hope, 

From which I cannot turn away ; 
Oh, earthly Hope hath cheated me 
This many a day. 

But there are Friends — but there are Friends, 

To whom I could not say, " Farewell !" 
Without a pang more hard to bear 

Than tongue can tell- 
But there's a thought — but there's a thought, 

Will arm me with that pang to cope ; 
Thank God ! we shall not part like those 
Who have no hope. 

And some are gone — and some are gone, — 

Methinks they chide my long delay, — 
With whom, it seem'd, my very life 
Went half away- 



60 " IT IS NOT DEATH." 

But we shall meet — but we shall meet, 
Where parting tears shall never flow ; 
And, when I think thereon, almost 
I long to go. 

The Saviour wept — the Saviour wept 

O'er him he loved — corrupting clay ! — 
But then He spake the word, and Death 
Gave up his prey ! — 

A little while — a little while, 

And the dark Grave shall yield its trust ; 
Yea, render every atom up 

Of human dust. 

What matters then — what matters then 

Who earliest lays him down to rest ? — 
Nay, " to depart, and be with Christ," 
Is surely best. 



C 61 ] 



SONNET. 



1 raveller of Life ! what plant of virtues rare 
Seeketh thy curious eye ? 'Mongst earth's excess, 
Will none but the exotic, Happiness, 

Content thine eager longing? Fruitless care ! 
It groweth not beneath our clouded skies. 
But when amongst the groves of Paradise 

The soft winds wanton, haply they may bear, 

From thence to earth, some vagrant flower or leaf, 
Some fluttering petal, exquisite as brief 

Its od'rous beauty ! — Oh, if to thy share 
It fall, one blossom on thy path to find, — 
Quick ! snatch it to thine heart, ere the rough wind 

Despoil its freshness. It will fade e'en there ; 

Thou can'st not quite exclude this cold world's nipping 
air. 



[ 62 ] 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 



" Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page ! 

And beare to my gaye Ladye 
This ringe of the good red gowde, and be sure 

Rede well what she tellethe to thee. 

" And take tent, little Page, if mye Ladye's cheeke 
Be with watchinge and weepinge pale ; 

If her locks are unkempt, and her bonnie eyes redde ; 
And come backe and telle me thye tale. 

u And marke, little Page, when thou showest the ringe, 

If she snatchethe it hastelye, 
If the red blude mount up her slendere throate 

To her forehedde of ivorve. 



the ladye's brydalle, 63 

" And take good heede, if, for gladnesse or griefe, 
So chaungethe mye Ladye's cheere, 

You shalle know bye her eyes, if their lichte laugh oute 
Through the miste of a startinge teare. 

(" Like the Summer sunne thro' a morninge cloude,) 
There needethe no furthere tokenne, 

That mye Ladye brighte, to her owne true Knighte, 
Hath keepit her faithe unbrokenne. 

" Now ride, little Page ! for the sun peeres oute 
Owre the rimme of the eastern heavenne, 

And backe thou must bee, with thy tidinges to mee, 
Ere the shadowe falles far at evenne." — 

Awaye, and awaye ! and he's farre on his waye 

The little foot-page alreddye ; 
For he's backed on his Lordes owne gallante graye, 

That steede so swift and steddye. 

But the knighte stands there like a charmedde manne, 

Watchinge with eare and eye, 
The clatteringe speede of his noble steede, 

That swifte as the windes doth flye. 



64 the ladye's brydalle. 

But the windes and the lichtninges are loitererres alle 

To the glaunce of a luver's mynde, 
And Sir Al wynne, I trow, had thocht Bonnybelle si owe,, 

Had her fleetnesse outstrippit the wynde. 

Beseemed to him, that the sunne once more 
Had stayedde his course that daye ; 

Never sicke manne longed for morninge licht, 
As Sir Alwynne for eveninge graye. 

But the longeste daye must ende at laste, 
And the brighteste sun must sette ; 

Where stayde Sir Alwynne at peepe of dawne, 
There at even he stayethe him yette. 

And he spyethe at laste — " Not soe, not soe, 
'Tis a small graye cloude, Sir Knighte, 

That risethe up like a courser's hedde 
On that borderre of gowden licht." 

" Bot harke ! bot harke ! for I heare it nowe, 

'Tis the comynge of Bonnybelle !" 
" Not soe, Sir Knighte ! from that rockye height, 

'Twas a clatteringe stone that felle. v 
5 



the ladye's brydalle, 65 

* That slothfulle boye ! but I'll thinke no more 

Of him and that laggingejade to-daye." 
" Righte, righte, Sir Knighte !" — " Nay, now by this 
lichte, 
Here comethe my Page ? and my gallante graye !" 

u Howe nowe, little Page ! ere thou lichteste downe, 

Speake but one worde oute hastylye ; 
Little Page ! hast thou seene mye Ladye luve ? 

Hathe mye Ladye keepit her faithe with me ?" 

" I've seene thye Ladye luve, Sir Knighte, 

And welle hathe she keepit her faithe with thee." 

" Lichte downe, lichte downe, mye trustye Page ! 
A berrye browne barbe shall thy guerdon be. 

" Telle on, telle on — Was mye Ladye's cheeke 

Pale as the lilye, or rosye redde ? 
Did she put the ringe on her finger smalle ? 

And what was the very firste worde she sedde ?" 

u Pale was thye Ladye's cheeke, Sir Knighte ! 
Blent with no streake of the rosye redde ; 

E 



66 the ladye's brydalle. 

I put the ringe on her finger smalle, 

But there is no voice amongste the dedde," 



There are torches hurryinge to and froe 

In Raeburne Towerre to-nighte ; 
And the chapelle dothe glowe with lampes alsoe, 

As if for a brydalle ryte. 

But where is the Bride ? and the Bridegroome where ? 

And where is the holye prieste ? 
And where are the guestes that shoulde biddenne be, 

To partake of the marriage feaste ? 

The Bryde from her chamberre descendethe slowo, 
And the Brydegroome her hande hath ta'en ; 

And the guestes are mette, and the holy Prieste 
Precedethe the marriage traine. 

The Bryde is the fayre Maude Winstanlye. 

And Dethe her sterne Brydegroome ; 
And her father followes his onlye childe 

To her mothere's yawninge toinbe. 



the labye's brydalle. 67 

An agedde manne ! and a wofulle manne ! 

And a heavye moane makes he ; 
" Mye childe I mye childe ! mine onlye childe ! 

Would God I had dyedde for thee !" 

An agedde manne, those white haires telle, 

And that bendedde backe and knee ; 
Yette a stalwart Knighte, at Tewkesburye fighte, % 

Was Sir Archibalde Winstanlye ! 

Tis a movinge thinge to see the teares 

Wrunge oute frae an agedde eye, 
Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes 

Of a fountain that's neere a drye. 

'Tis a sorrye sighte to see graye haires 
Brocht downe to the grave with sorrowe ! 

Youthe lukes thro' the cloude of the presente daye 
For a goldenne gleame to-morrowe. 

Bot the palsyede hedde, and the feeble knees, 

Berefte of earthlye staye ! 

God help thee nowe, olde Winstanlye ! 

Gude Christians for thee praye ! — 



68 the ladye's brydalle. 

Bot manye a voice in that burialle traine 

Breathes gloomilye aparte, 
" Thou hadst not been childelesse nowe, olde manne, 

Bot for thine owne harde hearte I" 

And manye a mayde, who strewethe floweres 

Afore the Ladye's biere, 
Weepes oute, " Thou hadst not dyede, sweete Maude, 

If Alwynne had beene heere !" 



* 



What solemne chaunte ascendeth slowe ? 

What voices peale the straine ? 
The Monkes of St Switholm's Abbaye neare 

Have mette the funeralle traine. 

They hold their landes, full manye a robde, 
From the Knightes of Raeburne Towerre ; 

And everre when Dethe doth claime his preye, 
From within that lordlye bowerre, 



the ladye's brydalle. 69 

Then come the holye Fatheris forthe, 

The shrowdedde corse to meete, 
And see it laide in hallowde grave, 

With requiem sadde and sweete. 

And nowe they turne, and leade the waye 

To that laste home so nigh, 
Where alle the race of Winstanlye 

In dust and darknesse lye. 

The holye altarre blazethe brighte 

With waxenne taperres high ; 
Elsewhere, in dimme and doubtfulle lycht 

Dothe alle the chapelle lye. 

Huge, undefinedde shadowes falle 

From pillare, and from tombe ; 
And manye a grimme olde monumente 

Lookes ghastelye through the gloome. 

And manye a rustye shirt of maile 

The eye maye scantlye trace ; 
And crestedde helmette, blacke and barred, 

That grinnes with sterne grimace. 



70 THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 

Bannerre and scutcheon from the walles 
Wave in the cald nighte aire ; 

Gleames oute their gorgeous heraldrye 
In the ent'ringe torches glare. 

For nowe the mourninge cumpanye, 
Beneathe that archedde doore, 

Beare in the lovelye, lifelesse claye, 
Shall passe thereoute no more. 

And up the soundinge aisle ye stille 
Their solemne chaunte may heare ; 

Tille 'neath that blazonned catafalque 
They gentlye reste the biere : 

Then ceasethe everye sounde of life. 

So deepe that awefulle hushe, 
Ye heare from yon freshe opennedde vaulte 

The hollowe deathe-winde rushe. 

Backe from the biere the mournerres alle 

Retire a little space ; 
Alle bot that olde bereavedde manne. 

Who takethe there his place 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE. 71 

Beside the dedde : — but none may see 

The workinges of his mynde ; 
So lowe upon that sunkenne breste 

Is that graye hedde declin'de. 



The masse is saide, they raise the dedde, 

The palle is flunge aside ; 
And soone that coffinn'd lovelyenesse 

The darksome pit shalle hide. 

It gapethe close at hande. — Deep downe 

Ye maye the coffinnes see, 
(By the lampes dull glare, freshe kindledde there,) 

Of manye a Winstanlye. 

And the gildedde nails on one looke brighte, 

And the velvette of cramoisie ; 
She hathe not laine there, a calenderre yeere, 

The laste Dame Winstanlve. 



72 the ladye's brydalle. 

" There's roome for thee heere, oh daughter deere 1" 

Methinkes I heare her saye ; — 
" There's roome for thee, Maude Winstanlye ; 

Come downe — make no delay e !" — 

And, from the vaulte, two grimlye armes 
Upraised, demaunde the dedde ! . . • , 

Hark ! hark ! 'tis the tramp of a rushinge steede ! 
'Tis the clanke of an armedde tredde ! 

There's an armedde hedde at the chapelle doore ; 

And in armoure all bedighte 
In coal-black Steele, from hedde to heele, 

In steppes an armedde knighte ! 

And uppe the aisle, with heavye tredde, 

Alone advauncethe he ; 
To barre his waye, dothe none essay e. 

Of the fun'ralle companye. 

And never a voice amongste them alle 

Dothe aske who he mote be ; 
Nor why his armedde steppe disturbes 

That sadde solemnitye. 



the ladye's brydalle. 73 

Yette manye an eye, with fixedde stare, 

Dothe sternelye on him frowne ; 
Bot none may trace the straunger's face — 

He weares his vizorre downe. 

He speakes no worde, bot waves his hande, 

And straighte theye alle obeye ; 
And ev'iye soule that standethe there, 

Falles backe to make him waye. 

He passethe on — no hande dothe stirre — 

His steppe the onlye sounde — 
He passethe on — and signes them sette 

The coffinne on the grounde. 

A momente gazinge downe thereonne, 
With foldedde armes dothe staye ; 

Then stoopinge, with one mightye wrench 
He teares the lidde awaye. 

Then risethe a confusedde sounde, 

And some half forwarde starte, 
And murmurre " sacriledge !" And some 

Beare hastilye aparte. 



74 THE LADYE S BRYDALLE. 

The agedde Knighte, at that straunge sighte 
Whose consciousnesse hathe fledde — 

Bot signe, nor sounde disturbethe him 
Who gazethe on the dedde. 

And seemethe sune, as that faire face 

Dothe alle exposedde lye, 
As if its holye calme o'erspredde 

The frowninge faces bye. 

And nowe beside the Virginne corse, 
Downe kneeles the straunger Knighte, 

And backe his vizorrede helme he throwes, 
Bot not in openne sighte ; 

For to the pale, cold clammye face. 

His owne he stoopethe lowe, 
And kissethe firste the bludelesse cheeke. 

And then the marble browe. 

Then, to the dedde lippes gluede, so longe 

The livinge lippes do staye, 
As if in that sad silente kisse, 

The soule had paste awaye. 



THE LADYE'S BRYDALLE, 7Q 

Bot suddenne, from that mortal trance, 

As with a desprate straine, 
Up ! up ! he springes — His armoure ringes ! 

His vizorre's downe againe. 

With manye a flouerre, her weepinge maydes 
The Ladye's shroude have dressed — 

And one white rose is in the faulde 
That veiles her whiterre breste. 

One gowden ringlette on her browe 
(Escapedde forth e) dothe stray e — 

So on a wreathe of driftedde snowe, 
The wintrye sun-beames playe. 

The mailedde hande hath ta'en the rose 
From offe that breste so fayre — 

The faulchion's edge, from that pale hedde, 
Hath shorne the gowden haire. 

One heavye sigh ! — the firste, and laste— 
One deepe and stifledde groane ! 

A few longe strides — a clange of hoofes. 
And the armedde straunger^s gone ! 



C ?6 ] 



SONNET.— 1818. 

Dark rolling clouds, in wild confusion driven, 

Obscure the full-orb'd Moon. In all the Heaven 

One only star (th' appointed evening light) 

Beams mildly forth ; like friendly Pharos bright, 

That, kindled on some towering summit, streams 

Wide o'er the ocean paths. Its far-off beams 

First seen by him who on the silent deck 

Paces his lonely watch — a glimmering speck, 

Doubtful in distance. But his homeward eye 

Is keen the faithful beacon to descry, 

And mine like his, impatient to explore 

(With friends and kindred throng'd) the distant 

shore, 

Is fixed on that lone star, whose lovely ray 

Points to a happier home, the heavenward way. 

5 



[ 77 ] 



ABJURATION, 



There was a time — sweet time of youthful folly ! 

Fantastic woes I courted, feign'd distress, 
Wooing the veiled phantom Melancholy 

With passion, born, like Love, " in idleness." 

And like a lover — like a jealous lover, 

I hid mine idol with a miser's art, 
Lest vulgar eyes her sweetness should discover, 

Close in the inmost chambers of mine heart — 

And then I sought her — oft in secret sought her, 
From merry mates withdrawn and mirthful play, 

To wear away, by some deep stilly water 

In greenwood haunt, the livelong summer day— 



78 ABJURATION. 

Watching the flitting clouds, the fading flowers, 
The flying rack athwart the waving grass — 

And murmuring oft — " Alack ! this life of ours ! — 
Such are its joys — so swiftly doth it pass !" 

And then mine idle tears (ah, silly maiden!) 
Bedropt the liquid grass like summer rain, 

And sighs, as from a bosom sorrow-laden, 

Heaved the light heart, that knew no real pain. 

And then I loved to haunt lone burial places, 

To pace the church-yard earth with noiseless tread. 

To pore in new-made graves for ghastly traces — 
Brown cmmbling bones of the forgotten dead. 

To think of passing bells, of death and dying — 
'Twere good, me thought, in early youth to die, 

So loved ! lamented ! — in such sweet sleep lying, 
The white shroud, all with flowers and rosemary 

Stuck o'er by loving hands ! — But then, 'twould 
grieve me 

Too sore, forsooth ! the scene my fancy drew — 
I could not bear the thought to die and leave ye, 

And I have lived, dear friends ! to weep for you. 



ABJURATION. 79 

And I have lived to prove what " fading flowers" 
Are life's best joys, and all we love and prize— 

What chilling rains succeed the summer showers ! 
What bitter drops wrung slow from elder eyes ! 

And I have lived to look on " death and dying," 
To count the sinking pulse — the short'ning breath — 

To watch the last faint life-streak flying — flying — 
To stoop — to start ! to be alone with death ! 

And I have lived to feign the smile of gladness, 
When all within was cheerless, dark, and cold — 

When all earth's joys seemed mockery and madness, 
And life more tedious than " a tale twice told." 

And now — and now — pale pining Melancholy ! 

No longer veil'd for me your haggard brow 
In pensive sweetness, such as youthful folly 

Fondly conceited ; I abjure ye now ! — 

Away ! a vaunt ! — No longer now I call ye, 
". Divinest Melancholy ! mild, meek maid !" 

No longer may your syren spells enthrall me, 
A willing captive in your baleful shade. 



80 ABJURATION. 

" Give me the voice of mirth, the sound of laughter, 
The sparkling glance of pleasure's roving eye ! — 

The past is past — avaunt, thou dark hereafter ! — 
Come, eat and drink — to-morrow we must die !" 

So in his desperate mood the fool hath spoken — 
The fool, whose heart hath said " There is no God." 

But for the stricken soul — the spirit broken, 
There's balm in Gilead still — The very rod, 

If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, 
Distilleth oil t' allay the inflicted smart, 

And " Peace that passeth understanding" blendeth 
With the deep sighing of the contrite heart. 

Mine be that holy, humble tribulation — 

No longer " feign'd distress, fantastic woe ;" 

I know my griefs — but then my consolation, 
My trust, and my immortal hopes I know. 



[ 81 ] 



SONNET.— 1821 



feTAY, flaming chariot ! fiery coursers, stay, 

Soft gleams of setting sunshine, that doth cast 
A lustrous line, along the dark wide waste ! 

Oh ! wherefore must ye fade so swift away ? 

Wherefore, oh ! wherefore at the close of day 

Shine out so glorious, when Night's sable pall 
Will drop around so soon, and cover all ? 

Beautiful beam ! bright trav ler ! stay, oh ! stay, 

And let my spirit on your parting ray 

Glide from this world of error, doubt, distress- 
(Oh ! I am weary of its emptiness,) 

To happier worlds, where there is peace for aye, 

Peace ! less abiding here, than Noah's dove — 

When we shall never part fronv those we love ! 

F 



[ 82 J 



BEAUTY, 



" Quel dommage que tout cela pourrira !" 

" Oui, Monsieur ! mais cela n'est pas pourri." 



John Bull and Lord Byron are agreed on one 
point. Both assert " Cant" to be the prevailing 
moral feature of the age we live in. Innumerable 
scribblers have caught up the same note, and spun 
it out in endless variation, and I, among the small 
fry of literature, am fain to join in the chorus. Of 
all cants then, one of the most sickening to my taste 
is that of some parents who pretend (I give them 
little credit for sincerity) to deprecate for their fe- 
male offspring that precious gift, as it really is, or, 
as they are pleased to term it, " that dangerous dis- 
tinction," personal beauty. They affect, forsooth, to 



BEAUTY, 83 

thank Providence that their daughters are " no beau- 
ties," or to sigh and lament over their fatal attrac- 
tions : and then they run out into a long string of 
trite axioms, and stale common-places, about the 
snares and vanities of this wicked world, as if none 
but beauties were exposed to the assaults of the 
Tempter. Now I am firmly of opinion, nay, every 
day experience proves it is so, that ugly women, 
called plain by courtesy, are just as liable to slip and 
stumble in those treacherous pitfalls, as others of 
their sex distinguished by personal attractiveness ; 
and, on a fair average, that pretty women are the 
happiest, as well as the most agreeable, of the species. 
Let us take a fair sample of this genera — not a 
perfect specimen ; the botanist may select such a one 
for his herbal, but it would not so well answer our 
purpose in exemplifying human varieties. Let us 
suppose a child endowed with moderate abilities, an 
amiable disposition, and a decent share of beauty, 
and other children of the same family gifted in an 
equal proportion with mental qualifications, but 
wholly destitute of external charms, will not the fair 
attractive child be the most favoured, the best be- 



8i BEAUTY. 

loved, generally speaking, even of those parents who 
endeavour to be, and honestly believe that they are, 
most conscientiously impartial ? The same anxious 
cares may, it is true, be equally bestowed upon all — 
the same tender and endearing epithets be applied to 
all — but the eye will linger longest on the sweet 
countenance of the lovely little one, the parental 
kiss will dwell more fondly on its rosy lip, and the 
voice, in speaking to it, will be involuntarily modu- 
lated to softer and more tender tones. I am not 
arguing that this preference, however involuntary it 
may be, is even then wholly defensible, or that, if 
knowingly, weakly yielded to, it is not in the high- 
est degree cruel and inexcusable. I only assert, that 
it is in human nature ; and waiving that side of the 
question, which, if analyzed, would involve a long- 
moral discussion not necessarily connected with the 
present subject, I w r ould simply observe, that if this 
unconscious, irresistible preference frequently in- 
fluences even the fondest parents, how far more un- 
restrainedly does it manifest itself in the circle of 
friends, guests, relations, and casual visitors ! How 
many indulgences and gratifications are obtained for 



BEAUTY. 85 

the irresistible pleader ! How many petitions grant- 
ed for the remuneration of a kiss ! How tenderly 
are the tears of contrition wiped away from eyes 
that look so beautifully remorseful ! And all this, I 
firmly believe, if restrained by right feeling and firm 
principle from reaching a blameable excess, is pro- 
ductive of good results only in the young mind, and 
that children thus happily constituted, thrive best 
(even in a moral sense) in that atmosphere of ten- 
der indulgence, and become eventually more amia- 
ble and equable, least selfish and exacting, in all the 
various circumstances and relations of life. 

The reason of this I take to be, that they feel the 
most perfect confidence in the good-will and affec- 
tions of their fellow-creatures ; and how many of the 
best affections of our nature, spring up and flourish, 
under the kindly influence of that most Christian 
feeling ! The fair engaging girl expands into woman- 
hood, in the warm sunshine of affectionate encou- 
ragement, and all the delicate and grateful feelings 
of her heart are drawn out to bud and blossom in 
that congenial clime, — every individual of her family 
and friends fondly or courteously contributing to 



86 BEAUTY. 

her happiness or pleasure — will not the desire to re- 
pay kindness with kindness, love with love, blessing 
with blessing, be the responsive impulse of her young 
heart ? She finds by everyday experience, that the 
tenderest approbation, the warmest encomiums, the 
fondest caresses, reward her endeavours after the 
attainment of useful information and elegant accom- 
plishment, and that blessings more expressively si- 
lent (the eloquent blessings of the eye) beam unut- 
terable things on her performance of higher duties. 
What a powerful stimulus to persevere in the path 
of well-doing ! to strive to be all she is thought ca- 
pable of being ! Her natural failings, and youthful 
errors, are most mildly and tenderly rebuked, her 
motives most charitably interpreted. What incen- 
tives to conquer those failings ! to avoid those errors ! 
to justify indulgence so tender ! to realize hopes so 
sanguine ! Happiness is far less selfish than sorrow. 
Its natural tendency (that is of happiness derived from 
pure and holy sources — the only true happiness in 
short) is to communicate, to infuse itself as it were 
into every surrounding object, and of a surety nothing 
inspires us with such good-will and charity towards 



BEAUTY. 87 

our fellow-creatures, as the pleasant consciousness 
that they are benevolently disposed towards us. If 
all the discourteous, uncharitable, ill-natured things 
that are said and done, were traced back to their 
real source, it would be found that at least every 
other one resulted, not from resentment for the in- 
fliction of serious injury, but from some wounded 
feeling — some smarting sense of neglect, unkindness, 
disrespect, or, it may be, of conscious insignificance 
and deficiency in the power of pleasing, a conscious- 
ness, by the way, widely differing from Christian 
humility, and operating far otherwise (generally 
speaking) on the heart and temper. 

Allowing these to be fancied, or at least fancifully 
exaggerated, injuries, their influence on the character 
is not therefore less pernicious ; and the question is, 
Would these baleful, corroding, crushing thoughts, 
have sprung up in the cheering sunshine of favour 
and indulgence ? Have they not been generated and 
fostered in a cold ungenial shade, where " flowers 
that love the light" could never blossom ? 

But " Vanity ! vanity !" saith the preacher. — . 
What sevenfold shield can fence the heart of wo- 



88 BEAUTY. 

man against vanity and its satanic legion ? The 
only shield, I reply, of proof to repel from any hu- 
man heart the perpetual, insidious, and ever- varying 
assaults of the Tempter — sound moral principles, 
founded on religious knowledge, and a firm and 
humble faith in the truths of revelation. When 
these have not been early and sedulously inculcated, 
the Beauty is exposed indeed to imminent and pecu- 
liar dangers. 

But is the ugly woman, on her part, more secure 
from those, temptations to which she also is peculi- 
arly exposed ? Is vanity solely confined to the con- 
sciousness of personal attractions ? Is there no such 
thing as conceit of sense, of talent, of taste, of clever- 
ness, (that is the fashionable word,) of goodness, 
nay, even of humility ? There is also (if I may so 
express myself) conceit active, and conceit passive. 
That which plumes itself on being superior on such 
and such points, is to my taste less odious than the 
pharisaical cant — " Well, thank God ! I am not so 
and so." 

Now verily I am inclined to believe, that of all 
modifications of this infirmity — this vice, if you will 



BEAUTY. 89 

have it so — that is most harmless which plumes it- 
self on outward and visible perfections, (I speak with 
exclusive reference to female beauties^) and, in point 
of fact, have we not often occasion to remark, that 
a pretty, vain, giddy girl, one of the most apparently 
inconsiderate character, will settle down for life, 
with a companion who deserves and possesses her re- 
spect and affection, into a domestic, prudent wife, a 
careful and tender mother, an exemplary mistress of 
a family; while some grave, demure-looking miss, 
guarded at all points in the armour of ugliness, bris- 
tling all over with decorum, and pinched into the 
very pattern of primness and propriety, doth as often 
(if occasion offer) launch out into such extravagan- 
cies and indiscretions, as defy all calculation on pro- 
bability and liability, and utterly confound the wise 
theories of all declaimers against the dangerous en- 
dowment of Beauty. 

But to sum up all, are there in the class of Beau- 
ties fewer good wives, good mothers, good women, 
and good Christians, than amongst those of the sex 
to whom nature has been sparing of outward adorn- 
ments ? An impartial observer will acknowledge? 



90 BEAUTY. 

that such characters are found in pretty equal pro- 
portions amongst the lovely and unlovely. But re- 
verting from that higher ground of observation to 
minor considerations, I will venture to assert, that 
there is less vanity, or perhaps, more correctly speak- 
ing, less solicitude about personal appearance, in 
pretty than in plain women. The cause is obvious- 
one is perpetually striving to make herself what na- 
ture has made the other. Its frequent result is more 
perplexing. That exuberant self-complacency, with 
which an ugly woman, in the full pomp and panoply 
of dress and decoration, seems as it were to inflate 
and expand her whole person ; and if some solitary 
charm of form or feature had been grudgingly be- 
stowed upon her, what sedulous anxiety to exhibit 
it to the best advantage ! How the malady concen- 
trates itself in a manner in that particular part ! Be- 
trays itself by an unnatural and perpetual distension 
of the mouth, if a set of white and even teeth is the 
seat of the disorder ; is distinguished by a delicate 
curve of the fingers, or a remarkable action of the 
hand, if that happens to be the part affected ; or by' 
a frequent protrusion of the foot, should the disease 
have possessed itself of the lower extremities* 



BEAUTY. 9 1 

Good Heaven ! in what thing, in what place, un- 
der what circumstances, will not vanity take root 
and thrive ? Stick it, like houseleek, on a bare wall, 
its fibres will insinuate themselves into the crevices, 
and the plant will prosper somehoiv. Strew it, like 
mustard and cress, over a few woollen threads, 
in an earthen platter, and you may pick sallad to- 
morrow. Hang it up, like the air plant, between 
heaven and earth, by a single thread, and like the 
air plant, it will bud and blossom, without other than 
etherial nutriment. They are inexperienced natu- 
ralists who affirm that it flourishes only, or peculi- 
arly, in soil or climate of such and such nature and 
temperature. 

But to all who persist in the belief that Beauty is 
the forcing bed of this idle flaunting weed — to all 
parents who are really sincere in deprecating for their 
female offspring, what they are pleased to term, so 
fatal an endowment — I would compassionately sug- 
gest one simple expedient, calculated to strike at 
the very root of the evil. Let the pride of civiliza- 
tion condescend for once to adopt the practice of 
those unsophisticated savages, who (for very oppo- 



9.2 BEAUTY. 

site purposes, indeed) flatten the noses, depress the 
skulls, and slit the lips and ears of their new-born 
females. The most obstinate charms— the most in- 
veterate beauty — must infallibly yield to this early 
discipline ; to which, as a measure of further securi- 
ty, may be added the Chinese precaution of com- 
pressing the feet, and a general tattooing of the 
whole person, so that no separate part or portion 
thereof, may become a lurking strong-hold for that 
subtle demon, who can entrench himself in the hem 
of an ear, or u take his stand" on the tip of a little 
linger. 

Results incalculably important, powerfully influ- 
ential on the whole system of society, might arise 
from a skilful and determined practice of these pre- 
cautionary measm*es. We learn from natural history, 
and daily observation confirms it to us, that human 
science and ingenuity, sometimes dexterously avail- 
ing themselves of chance occasions, often obtain sig- 
nal triumphs over the stubborn laws of nature. In 
America (I think) a breed of sheep has been propa- 
gated, (springing, in the first instance, from an acci- 
dental variety,) so crippled in the hind-legs, that the 



BEAUTY. 95 

slightest fence imaginable, — a mere ridge of turf,— 
is sufficient to restrain the animals within the boun- 
daries of their rich pastures, where they crawl about 
like monstrous grubs, the qualities of the wool and 
mutton being noways deteriorated by their dispropor- 
tionate formation. Why should not similar modes of 
treatment (if brought to bear on the human species) 
be rewarded by similar success ? The Chinese, in 
particular, (were it possible that the light of science 
should penetrate those dark mists of ignorance and 
obstinacy which envelope " the celestial empire,") in- 
stead of torturing, with barbarous pressure, the tender 
feet of their infant daughters, might happily obtain 
and cultivate a breed of females, as incapable of active 
locomotion as the woolly crawlers above mentioned ; 
or, if that degree of perambulatory power should be 
deemed incompatible with the moral security of the 
female flock, doubtless the triumph of experimental 
philosophy might be carried still farther, in the ulti- 
mate perfecting of a species wholly divested of legs 
and feet ; very useless appendages, it must be owned, 
when the possessors are predestined to squat on 
cushions and carpets throughout the whole term of 



94 BEAUTY. 

their mortal existence. In Barbary and Turkey also, 
and amongst all those nations where female beauty 
is secluded from the public eye, and valued by the 
hundred-weight, the attainment of so valuable and 
curious a variety would be an object of infinite im- 
portance ; but these are desultory considerations, 
thrown out at random, from whence the patriotic 
mind reverts, with concentrated zeal, to the dearer 
interests of its native land. To my countrymen, 
therefore — But whither tends my speculative ge- 
nius ? — what would be the probable result of those 
measures I have ventured to suggest, in my compas- 
sionate tenderness for parental society ? If adopted 
by a few leaders of rank and fashion, the universal 
rage for novelty and imitation would soon make the 
practice general ; and then, indeed, not alone a sepa- 
rate caste might be attained, sanctified in the beauty 
of ugliness, but a great and decided conquest over 
Beauty itself might be confidently anticipated. But 
with its utter extinction in the land, might not our pre- 
sent conceptions of its component parts, and general 
combinations, fade away to dim recollections ? Those 
also, in process of time, could hardly fail to be wholly 



BEAUTY. 95 

obliterated ; and in their stead would grow up a new 
standard of perfection, not less the object of danger- 
ous and profane worship, for being the very reverse 
of its present idol. With the customs of savage na- 
tions, we may import their tastes also ; and thence- 
forward, a celebrated beauty of the British court may 
be constituted such, by perfections similar to those 
that qualify a Hottentot Venus, an Esquimaux Pe- 
tite Maitresse, or a reigning toast of the Sandwich 
Islands ; and the first glance of a flat nose, thick lips, 
flapping ears, and depressed pericranium, in his new- 
born babe, may strike into the heart of an anxious 
parent the same pious horror, with which he now 
contemplates the Grecian outline, and delicate pro- 
portions of the infant Beauty, who smiles in his face 
with such innocent and pitiable unconsciousness of 
the fatal charms with which nature has endowed her. 



[ 36 ] 



MY GARDEN. 



I love my Garden ! — dearly love 
That little spot of ground ! — 

There's not, methinks — (though I may err, 

In partial pride) — a pleasanter, 
In all the country round ! — 

The smooth green turf winds gently there, 

With no ungraceful bend, 
Round many a bed, and many a border, 
Where, gaily group'd in sweet disorder, 

Young Flora's darlings blend. 

Spring ! Summer ! Autumn ! — Of all three. 

Whose reign is loveliest there ? — 
Oh ! is not she who paints the ground, 
When its frost fetters are unbound, 
The fairest of the fair ? 



MY GARDEN. 97 

I gaze upon her violet beds, 

Laburnams, golden tress'd ; 

Her flower-spiked almonds Breathe perfume, 

From lilac and seringa bloom, 

And cry, " I love Spring best !" 

But Summer comes, with all her pomp 

Of fragrance, beauty, bliss ! — 
And from amidst her bowers of roses, 
I sigh, as purple evening closes, 

M What season equals this ?" 

That pageant passeth by. — Comes next 

Brown Autumn in her turn ; — 
Oh ! not unwelcome cometh she ; 
The parched earth luxuriously 

Drinks from her dewy urn. 

And she hath flowers, and fragrance too, 

Peculiarly her own ; 
Asters of ev'ry hue — perfume, 
Spiced rich with clematis and broom, 
And mignonette late blown. 

G 



98 MY GARDEN. 

Then if some lingering rose I spy 

Reclining languidly, 
Or the bright laurel's glossy green,— 
Dear Autumn ! my whole heart, I ween, 

Leaps up for love of thee ! — 

Oh, yes ! — I love my garden well 1 

And find employment there ; — 
Employment sweet ; for many an hour, 
In tending every shrub and flower 
With still unwearied care. 

I prop the weakly, — prune the rude, — 

Scatter the various seeds, — 
Clear out intruders, — yet of those 
Oft sparing, what the florist knows 
To be but gaudy weeds. 

But when my task — my pleasant task !— 

Is ended for the day — 
Sprinkled o'er every sun-bow'd flower 
The artificial evening shower — 

Then oftentimes I stray — 



MY GARDEN. 99 

— (Inherent is the love of change 

In human hearts) — far, far 
Beyond the garden-gate, — the bound 
That clips my little Eden round, — 

Chance for my leading star ; 

Through hollow lanes, or coppice paths, 

By hill or hawthorn fence, 
O'er thymy commons,- clover fields, 
Where every step I take reveals 

Some charm of sight or sense. 

The winding path brings suddenly 

A rustic bridge in sight ; 
Beneath it, gushing brightly out, 
The rivulet, where speckled trout 

Leap in the circling light. 

Pale water-lilies float thereon, 

The Naiads' loveliest wreath ! 
The adders' tongues dip down to drink ; 
The flag peers high above the brink, 

From her long slender sheath. 



100 MY GARDEN. 

There, on the greensward, an old oak 

Stands singly. — One, I trow, 
Whose mighty shadow spread as wide 
When they were in their prime, who died 
An hundred years ago. 

A single ewe, with her twin lambs, 
Stands the grey trunk beside ; 
Others lie clustering in the shade, 
Or down the windings of the glade 
Are scatter'd far and wide. 

Two mossy thorns, o'er yonder stile 

A bowery archway rise ; — 
Oh, what a flood of fragrance thence 
Breathes out ! — Behind that hazel fence 
A flowering bean-field lies. 

The shadowy path winds gently on 

That hazel fence beneath ; 
The wild rose, and the woodbine there 
Shoot up, festooning high in air 
Their oft-entangled wreath. 



MY GARDEN. 101 

The path winds on — on either side 

Wall'd in by hedges high ; 
Their boughs so thickly arching over, 
That scarce one speck you can discover— 

One speck of the blue sky ! — 

A lovely gloom ! — It pleaseth me. 

And lonely Philomel. — 
Hark ! the enchantress sings ! — that strain 
Dies with a tremulous fall ! — again — 

Oh, what a gushing swell ! 

Darker and darker still the road, 

Scarce lit by twilight glances ; — • 

Darker and darker still But, see ! 

Yonder, on that young aspen tree 
A darting sun-beam dances. 

Another gems the bank below 

With em'ralds ! — Into one 

They blend — unite one em'rald sea ! — 

And, last, in all his majesty, 

Breaks through the setting sun ! 



102 MY GARDEN. 

And I am breathless, motionless, 

Mute with delight and love ! 
My very being seems to blend 
With all around me — To ascend 

To the great Source above. 

I feel I am a spark struck out 
From an eternal flame ; 
A part of the stupendous whole, 
His work, who breath'd a deathless soul 
Into this mortal frame. 

And they shall perish — all these things — 

Darkness shall quench this ball. 
Death-throes this solid earth shall rive, 
Yet I, frail thing of dust ! survive 
The final wreck of all. 

" Wake up my glory ! Lute and harp !" 

Be vocal ev'ry chord ; 
Lo ! all His works in concert sing, 
" Praise, praise to the Eternal King," 

The Universal Lord ! 



MY GARDEN. 103 

Oh, powerless will ! Oh, languid voice ! 

Weak words ! imperfect lays ! 
Yet, could His works alone inspire 
The feelings that attune my lyre 

To these faint notes of praise. 

Not to the charms of tasteful art 

That I am cold or dull ; 
I gaze on all the graceful scene, 
The clust'ring flowers — the velvet green, 

And cry, — " How beautiful !" 

But when to Nature's book I turn, 

The page she spreads abroad ; 
Tears only to mine eyes that steal, 
Bear witness that I see and feel 

The mighty hand of God I 



[ 104 ] 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 



Those few pale Autumn flowers ! 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the Summer store, 

How lovelier far ! 

And why ? — They are the last — 

The last ! — the last ! — the last !- 

O, by that little word, 

How many thoughts are stirr'd ! 
That sister of the past ! 

Pale flowers ! — Pale perishing flowers ! 

Ye're types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments 
That flit like life's enjoyments, 

On rapid, rapid wings. 



AUTUMN FLOWERS. 105 

Last hours with parting dear ones, 

(That time the fastest spends,) 

Last tears, in silence shed, 

Last words, half-uttered, 

Last looks of dying friends ! 

Who but would fain compress 

A life into a day ; 
The last day spent with one, 
Who, e'er the morrow's sun, 

Must leave us, and for ave ? 

O, precious, precious moments ! 

Pale flowers ! ye're types of those— 
The saddest ! sweetest ! dearest ! 
Because, like those, the nearest 

Is an eternal close. 

Pale flowers ! Pale perishing flowers J 

I woo your gentle breath ; 
I leave the summer rose 
For younger, blither brows. 

Tell me of change and death ! 



[ 106 ] 



" SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY IS THE 
EVIL THEREOF." 



Oh ! by that gracious rule 

Were we but wise to steer 
On the wide sea of Thought, 
What moments, trouble-fraught, 
Were spared us here ! 

But we (perverse and blind) 

As covetous of pain, 
Not only seek for more 
Yet hidden, but live o'er 

The past again. 

This life is called brief- 
Man on the earth but crawls 

His threescore years and ten 

At best fourscore — and then 

The ripe fruit falls. 



SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY, &C. 107 

Yet, betwixt birth and death, 
Were but the life of man 
By his thoughts measured, 
To what an age would spread 
That little span ! 

There are, who're born and die, 

Eat, sleep, walk, rest between — 
Talk — act by clock-work too, 
So pass, in order due, 

Over the scene. 

With whom the past is past, 
The future, nothing yet ; 
And so, from day to day 
They breathe, till eall'd to pay 
The last great debt. 

Their life, in truth, is brief ; 

A speck — a point of time. 
Whether in good old age 
Endeth their pilgrimage, 

Or in its prime, 



108 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY 

But other some there are. 

(I call them not more wise,) 
In whom the restless mind 
Still lingereth behind, 

Or forward flies. 

With these, things pass away ; 

But past things are not dead ; 
In the heart's treasury, 
Deep-hidden, dead they lie, 
Unwithered. 

And there the soul retires, 

From the dull things that are, 
To mingle, oft and long, 
With the time-hallowed throng 
Of those that were. 

Then into life start out 

The scenes long vanished ; 
Then we behold again 
The forms that have long lain 
Among the dead. 



IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 109 

We seek their grasp of love, 

We meet their beaming eye ; 
We speak — the vision's flown, 
Dissolving with its own 
Intensity. 

Years rapidly shift on, 

(Like clouds athwart the sky,) 
And, lo ! sad watch we keep, 
When, in perturbed sleep, 

The sick doth lie. 

We gaze on some pale face, 

Shown by the dim watch-light ; 
Shuddering we gaze, and pray, 
And weep — and wish away 

The long, long night. 

And yet minutest things, 

That mark time's tedious tread, 
Are on the feverish brain, 
With self-protracting pain, 
Deep minuted. 



110 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY 

The drops, with trembling hand, 

(Love steadied,) pour'd out ;- 
The draught replenished,— 
The label, oft re-read 

With nervous doubt. 

The watch, that ticks so loud ; 

The winding it, for one 
Whose hand lies powerless ; — 
And then, the fearful guess, — 

" Ere this hath run . , 

The shutter, half unclosed 

As the night wears away ; 
Ere the last stars are set — 
Pale stars ! — that linger yet, 
Till perfect day. 

The morn, so oft invoked, 

That bringeth no relief; 
From which, with sickening sight, 
We turn, as if its light 

But mock'd our grief. 



IS THE EVIL THEREOF. Ill 

Oh, never, after-dawn, 

For us the east shall streak ; 
But we shall see agen, 
With the same thoughts as then, 
That pale day-break ! 

The desolate awakening, 

When first we feel alone ! 
" Dread memories" are these ! — 
Yet who, for heartless ease, 

Would exchange one ? 

These are the soul's hid wealth — 

Relics, embalm' d with tears. — 
Or, if her curious eye 
Searcheth futurity, — 

The depth of years, — 

There (from the deck of youth) 

Enchanted land she sees ; 
Blue skies, and sun-bright bowers, 
Reflected, and tall towers, 
On glassy seas. 



112 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY 

But heavy clouds collect 

Over that bright-blue sky ; 
And rough winds rend the trees, 
And lash those glassy seas 

To billows high ! 

And then, the last thing seen 

By that dim light, may be 
(With helm and rudder lost) 
A lone wreck, tempest-tost, 

On the dark sea ! — 

Thus doth the soul extend 

Her brief existence here, 
Thus multiplieth she, 
Yea, to infinity !) 

The short career. 

Presumptuous and unwise ! 
As if the present sum 
Were little of life's woe ! — 
Why seeketh she to know 

Ills yet to come ? 
3 



IS THE EVIL THEREOF. 113 

Look up, look up, my soul, 

To loftier mysteries ; 
Trust in His word to thee, 
Who saith, " All tears shall be 

Wiped from all eyes." 

And when thou turnest back, 

(Oh ! what can chain thee here ?) 
Seek out the Isles of light, 
On " Mem'ry's waste" yet bright ; 
Or if too near 

To desolate plains they lie, 

All dark with guilt and tears ; 
Still, still retrace the past, 
Till thou alight at last 

On life's first years. 

There not a passing cloud 

Obscures the sunny scene ; 
No blight on the young tree ; 
No thought of what may be, 

Or what hath been. 

H 



114 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY, &C, 

There all is Hope — not hope — 
For all things are possest. 
No — bliss without alloy, 
And innocence and joy, 

In the young breast 

And all-confiding love, 

And holy ignorance, 
Thrice blessed veil ! Soon torn 
From eyes foredoom'd to mourn 
For mans offence. 

O, thither, weary spirit 1 

Flee from this world defiled. 
How oft, heart-sick and sore, 
I've wished I were once more 
A little child ! 



[ 115 ] 



GRACIOUS RAIN. 



The east wind had whistled for many a day, 
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain ; 

And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of grey, 
Look'd sullenly down on the plain. 

The butterfly folded her wings as if dead, 
Or awaked ere the full destined time ; 

Ev'ry flower shrank inward, or hung down its head 
Like a young heart frost-nipp'd in its prime. 

I, too, shrank and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth, 
The cold heaven with comfortless looks : 

And I listen'd in vain for the summer birds' mirth, 
And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks. 



116 GRACIOUS RAIN. 

But lo ! while I listen'd, down heavily dropt 

A few tears from a low-sailing cloud ; 
Large and few they descended — then thicken'd — then 
stopt, 

Then poured down abundant and loud. 

O, the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound, 
That succeeded that soft gracious rain I 

With laughter and singing the valleys rang round, 
And the little hills shouted again. 

The wind sunk away like a sleeping child's breath, 

The pavilion of clouds was upfuiTd ; 
And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death. 
Smiled out on this beautiful world. 

On this " beautiful world" such a change had been 
wrought 
By these few blessed drops. Oh ! the same 
On some cold stony heart might be work'd too, me- 
th ought, 
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame. 



GRACIOUS RAItf. 1 IT 

If a few virtuous tears by the merciful shed, 
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain 

That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming 
dead, 
Might shoot up and flourish again. 

And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from 
Heaven, 

Might chase the dark clouds of despair ; 
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was riven$ 

Might gush out and soften all there. 

Oh ! to work such a change — By God's grace to recall 
A poor soul from the death-sleep ! To this ! 

To this joy that the angels partake, what were all 
That the worldly and sensual call bliss ! 



[ 118 ] 



THE WELCOME HOME, 

1820. 



Hark ! hark ! they're come ! — those merry bells, 
That peal, their joyous welcome swells ; 
And many hearts are swelling high, 
With more than joy, — with ecstacy ! 

And many an eye is straining now 
TVard that good ship, that sails so slow ; 
And many a look toward the land 
They cast, upon that deck who stand. 



Flow, flow, ye tides ! — ye languid gales, 
Rise, rise, and fill their flagging sails ! — 
Ye tedious moments, fly, begone, 
And speed the blissful meeting on. 



THE WELCOME HOME. ! 19 

Impatient watchers ! happy ye, 
Whose hope shall soon be certainty ; 
Happy, thrice happy ! soon to strain 
Fond hearts to kindred hearts again I— 

Brothers and sisters,- — children,— mother- 
All, all restored to one another ! 
All, all return'd ! — And are there none 
To me restor d, return'd ? — Not one. 

Far other meeting mine must be 
With friends long lost — Far other sea 
Than thou, oh restless ocean ! flows 
Betwixt us — One that never knows 

Ebb-time or flood ; — a stagnant sea ; — 
Time s gulph ; — its shore Eternity ! — 
No voyager from that shadowy bourne 
With chart or sounding may return. 

There, there they stand, — the loved ! — the lost ! 
They beckon from that awful coast ! — 
They cannot thence return to me, 
But I shall go to them. — I see 



190 THE WELCOME HOME. 

E'en now, methinks, those forms so dear. 
Bend smiling to invite me there.— 
Oh, best beloved ! a little while, 
And I obey that beck'ning smile ! 

Tis all my comfort now, to know, 
In God's good time, it shall be so ; 
And yet, in that sweet hope's despite, 
Sad thoughts oppress my heart to-night. 

And doth the sight of others' gladness 
Oppress this selfish heart with sadness ? 
Now Heaven forbid ! — But tears will rise — 
Unbidden tears — into mine eyes. 

When busy thought contrasts with theirs 
My fate, my feelings — Four brief years 
Have wing'd their flight, since, where they stand, 
I stood, and watch'd that parting band, 

( Then parting hence,) and one, methought, 
(Oh, human foresight ! set at nought 
By God's unfathom'd will !) was borne 
From England, never to return ! — 



THE WELCOME HOME. 121 

With sadden'd heart, I tum'd to seek 
Mine own beloved home, — to speak, 
With her who shared it, of the fears 
She also shared in It appears 

But yesterday that thus we spoke ; 
And I can see the very look 
With which she said, " I do believe 
Mine eyes have ta'en their last long leave 

Of her who is gone hence to-day !" — 
Five months succeeding slipp'd away ; 
And, on the sixth, a deep-toned bell 
Swung slow, of recent death to tell ! — 

It toll'd for her, with whom so late 
I reason'd of impending fate ; 
To me, those solemn words who spoke 
So late, with that remember d look ! — 

And noiv, from that same steeple, swells 
A joyous peal of merry bells, 
Her welcome, whose approaching doom 
We blindly thought — a foreign tomb ! 



[ 122 ] 



TO A DYING INFANT, 



Sleep, little Baby ! sleep ! 

Not in thy cradle bed, 
Not on thy mother s breast 
Henceforth shall be thy rest, 

But with the quiet dead. 

Yes, with the quiet dead, 

Baby ! thy rest shall be — 

Oh ! many a weary wight, 

Weary of life and light, 

Would fain lie down with thee, 



Flee, little tender nursling ! 

Flee to thy grassy nest — 
There the first flowers shall blow, 
The first pure flake of snow 

Shall fall upon thy breast. 



TO A DYING INFANT, 123 

Peace ! peace ! the little bosom 

Labours with shortening breath, 

Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh 

Speaks his departure nigli — 

Those are the damps of Death. 

Fve seen thee in thy beauty, 

A thing all health and glee ; 
But never then, wert thou 
So beautiful, as now, 

Baby ! thou seem'st to me. 

Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over 
Like harebells wet with dew — 

Already veil'd and hid 

By the convulsed lid, 

Their pupils darkly blue. 

Thy little mouth half open, 

The soft lip quivering, 
As if, like summer air, 
Ruffling the rose leaves, there 

Thy soul were fluttering* 



124 TO A DYING INFANT. 

Mount up, immortal essence ! 

Young spirit ! hence — depart ! 
And is this Death ? — Dread Thing I 
If such thy visiting, 

How beautiful thou art ! 

Oh ! I could gaze for ever 

Upon that waxen face, 
So passionless ! so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure 

An angel's dwelling place. 

Thou weepest, childless mother ! 

Ay, weep — 'twill ease thine heart — 
He was thy first-horn son — 
Thy first, thine only one— 

'Tis hard from him to part. 

'Tis* hard to lay thy darling 

Deep in the damp cold earth, 

His empty crib to see, 

His silent nursery, 

Late ringing with his mirth. 



TO A DYING INFANT. 125 

To meet again in slumber 

His small mouth's rosy kiss, 
Then — waken'd with a start, 
By thine own throbbing heart — 

His twining arms to miss. 

And then, to he and weep, 

And think the live-long night, 

(Feeding thine own distress 

With accurate greediness,) 
Of every past delight. 

Of all his winning ways, 

His pretty, playful smiles, 
His joy at sight of thee, 
His tricks, his mimickry, 

And all his little wiles. 

Oh ! these are recollections 

Round mothers hearts that cling ! 
That mingle with the tears 
And smiles of after years, 

With oft awakening*. 



126 TO A DYING INFANT. 

But thou wilt then, fond mother, 

In after years, look back 
(Time brings such wondrous easing) 
With sadness not unpleasing, 
Even on this gloomy track. 

Thou'lt say, " My first-born blessing ! 

It almost broke my heart, 
When thou wert forced to go, 
And yet for thee, I know 

'Twas better to depart. 

God took thee in his mercy, 

A lamb untask'd — untried — 

He fought the fight for thee — 

He won the victory — 

And thou art sanctified. 

I look around, and see 

The evil ways of men. 

And oh, beloved child ! 

I'm more than reconciled 
To thy departure then. 



TO A DYING INFANT. 121 

The little arms that clasped me, 
The innocent lips that prest, 

Would they have been as pure 

Till now, as when of yore 

I lulFd thee on my breast ? 

Now, like a dew-drop shrined 

Within a chrystal stone, 
Thou rt safe in Heaven, my dove ! 
Safe with the source of Love, 

The everlasting One ! 

And when the hour arrives, 

From flesh that sets me free, 

Thy spirit may await, 

The first at Heaven's gate, 

To meet and welcome me," 






C 128 ] 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK, 



Come, look at this Plant, with its narrow pale leaves, 

And its tall, slim, delicate stem, 
Thinly studded with flowers ! — Yes, with flowers I— 

There they are ! — 
Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star ? 

But, in truth, there's no beauty in them. 

So you ask why I keep it ? the little mean thing ! — 
Why I stick it up here, just in sight ; — 

'Tis a fancy of mine. — " A strange fancy !" you say ; 

" No accounting for tastes !" — In this instance you may, 
For the flower . . . . But I'll tell you to-night. — 

Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon 

Looks down on that bastion'd wall, — 
When the twinkling stars dance silently 
On the rippling surface of the sea, 

And the heavy night-dews fall, — 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 129 

Then meet me again in this casement niche. 
On the spot where were standing now. — 
Nay, question not wherefore ? — Perhaps, with me, 
To look out on the night, and the broad, bright sea ; 
And to hear its majestic flow ! — 



Well, we're met here again ; and the moonlight sleeps 

On the sea, and the bastion' d wall ; 

And the flowers there below— How the night -wind 

brings 
Their delicious breath on its dewy wings ! — 

" But there's one," say you, " sweeter than all I" 

" Which is it ? The myrtle, or jessamine, 

Or their sovereign lady the rose ? 
Or the heliotrope ? or the virgin's-bower ? — 
What ! neither ?" — Oh, no ; 'tis some other flower, 

Far sweeter than either of those. 

i 



130 THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 

Far sweeter ! — And where, think you, groweth the plant 

That exhaleth such perfume rare ? — 
Look about, up and down, — But take care ! or you'll 

break, 
With your elbow, that poor little thing that's so weak, 

. • . . " Why, 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare !" 

Ah ha ! is it that? Have you found out now 
Why I cherish that odd little fright ? — 

" All is not gold that glitters," you know ; 

And it is not all worth makes the greatest show 
In the glare of the strongest light. 

There are human flowers full many, I trow, 

As unlovely as that by your side, 
That a common observer passeth by, 
With a scornful lip, and a careless eye, 

In the hey-day of pleasure and pride. 

But move one of those to some quiet spot, 

From the mid-day sun's broad glare, 
Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing ; 
And try if the homely, despised thing, 

May not yield sweet fragrance there. 



THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. 131 

Or wait till the days of trial come — 

The dark days of trouble and woe ; 
When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the 

sun; — 
Then turn to the little despised one, 

And see if 'twill serve you so. — 

And judge not again at a single glance ; 

Nor pass sentence hastily : — 
There are many good things in this world of ours — 
Many sweet things and rare ! — weeds that prove pre- 
cious flowers ! — 

Little dreamt of by you or me. 



[ 132 ] 



« I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY." 



I never cast a flower away, 

The gift of one who cared for me, — 

A little flower — a faded flower, — 
But it was done reluctantly. — 

I never look'd a last adieu 

To things familiar, but my heart 

Shrank with a feeling almost pain, 
Even from their lifelessness to part.— 

I never spoke the word " Farewell," 
But with an utterance faint and broken ; 

An earth-sick longing for the time 
When it shall never more be spoken. 



[ 138 ] 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER- WRITING. 



Epistolary, as well as personal intercourse, is, 
according to the mode in which it is earned on, one 
of the pleasantest or most irksome things in the 
woild. It is delightful to drop in on a friend with- 
out the solemn prelude of invitation and acceptance ; 
to join a social circle, where we may suffer our minds 
and hearts to relax and expand, in the happy con- 
sciousness of perfect security from invidious remark, 
and carping criticism, — where we may give the reins 
to the sportiveness of innocent fancy, or the enthu- 
siasm of warm-hearted feeling, — where we may talk 
sense or nonsense — (I pity people who cannot talk 
nonsense !) — without fear of being looked into icicles, 
by the cold surprise of unimaginative people — living 
pieces of clock-work— -who dare not themselves 
utter a word, or lift up a little finger, without first 



134 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 

weighing the important point in the hair-balance of 
propriety and good breeding. It is equally delight- 
ful to let the pen talk freely and unpremeditatedly, to 
one by whom we are sure of being understood ; but 
a formal letter, like a ceremonious morning visit, is 
tedious alike to the writer and receiver, for the most 
part made up of unmeaning phrases, trite observa- 
tions, complimentary flourishes, and protestations of 
respect and attachment, so far not deceitful, that 
they never deceive anybody. Oh ! the misery of 
having to compose a set, proper, well-worded, cor- 
rectly pointed, polite, elegant epistle — one that must 
have a beginning, a middle, and an end, as methodi- 
cally arranged and proportioned as the several parts 
of a sermon under three heads, or the three grada- 
tions of shade in a school-girl's first landscape. For 
my part, I would rather be set to beat hemp, or 
weed in a turnip-field, than to write such a letter 
exactly every month or every fortnight, at the pre- 
cise point of time from the date of our correspond- 
ent's last communication, that he or she set pen to 
paper after the receipt of ours, as if one's thoughts 
bubbled up to the well-head periodically a pint at a 
time, to be bottled off for immediate use. Thought ! 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 135 

What has thought to do in such a correspondence ? 
It murders thought, quenches fancy, spoils paper, 
wears out innocent goose-quills. " I'd rather be a 
kitten and cry mew ! than one of those same" pro- 
sing letter-mongers. 

Surely in this age of invention something may be 
struck out to obviate the necessity (if such necessity 
exists) of so tasking, degrading human intellect. 
Why should there not be constructed a sort of mute 
barrel-organ, on the plan of those that play sets of 
tunes and country-dances, to indite a catalogue of 
polite epistles, sufficiently meaning to answer all the 
purposes of ceremonious good breeding ? Oh the 
unspeakable relief (were such a consummation pos- 
sible) of having only to grind an answer to one of 
" one's dear five hundred friends !" Or suppose there 
were to be an epistolary steam-engine ! Steam does 
everything now-a-days. Worthy Mr Brunei, take 
the matter into serious consideration, I beseech you. 
Set your wits to work, and achieve what would be 
the masterpiece of your marvellous inventions. The 
block-machine at Portsmouth would be nothing to 
it. That spares manual labour — this would relieve 
mental drudgery ; and thousands yet unborn , . . . 



136 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 

But hold ! I am not so sure that the female sex in 
general may quite enter into my views of the sub- 
ject. Those who pique themselves on " l'eloquence 
du billet ;" those fair Scribblerinas just emancipa- 
ted from boarding-school restraint, or from the dra- 
goriism of their governesses, just beginning to pour 
out their pretty souls in the refined intercourse of 
sentimental, confidential, ineffable correspondence, 
with some Angelina, Seraphina, or Laura Matilda, 
dwelling at Rosemount Cottage, or Myrtle Villa, or 
Eglantine Vale ; to indite beautiful little notes with 
long -tailed letters, upon vellum-paper with pink 
margins, sealed with sweet mottos and dainty de- 
vices — all new and original — " Je ne change quen 
mourrant," " Forget-me-not," or Cupid with a 
rose, and " Une seule me suffit ;" the whole deli- 
cately perfumed with musk and atar of roses : 
young ladies who collect " copies of verses" and 
charades, receipts for painting boxes and making al- 
lum-baskets and bead-necklaces ; keep albums, copy 
patterns, make bread-seals, work little dogs upon 
footstools, and paint flowers without shadow — Oh 
no ! the epistolary steam-engine will never come into 
favour with those dear industrious creatures, whose 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 137 

minds are in a state of constant activity, like the 
little eels in rain-water, and must work off their ex- 
uberant energies somehow. They must luxuriate in 
" the feast of reason and the flow of soul ;" and they 
must write — ye gods ! — how they do write ! 

But for another genus of female scribes. Unhap- 
py innocents ! who groan in spirit at the dire neces- 
sity of having to hammer out one of those aforesaid 
terrible epistles, though having in due form dated 
the gilt-edged sheet that lies outspread before them 
in appalling whiteness ; having also felicitously 
achieved the customary and most veracious exor- 
dium — " My dear Mrs P. ;" or, " My dearest Lady 
V. ;" or, " My dear, dear . . • anything else," 
feel that they are in for it, and must say something. 
Oh ! that something that must be made out of no- 
thing ! Those bricks that must be made without 
straw ! — those pages that must be covered over 
with words ! — yea, with words that must be sewed 
into sentences — yea, with sentences that must seem 
to mean something ! — the whole to be ingeniously 
tacked together — all neatly fitted and dove-tailed, 
so as to form when complete, one smooth, polished 
surface of elegant composition — What were the la- 



138 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 

bours of Hercules to such a task ? The very thought 
of it puts one in a mental perspiration ; and from my 
inmost heart I compassionate the unfortunates, now 
(at this very moment perhaps) screwed up perpen- 
dicular in the seat of torture, — having, in the right 
hand, a fresh-nibbed patent pen, (the infliction of the 
thumb-screw would be more bearable !) dipped ever 
and anon in the ink-bottle, as if to fish up ideas, — 
and, under the outspread palm of the left hand, 
(spread out immoveably in the very flatness of de- 
spair I) a fair sheet of the best Bath post, (ready to 
receive ideas yet unhatched,) on which their eyes 
are rivetted with a stare of disconsolate perplexity, 
infinitely touching to a feeling mind. To such unhap- 
py persons, in whose miseries I deeply sympathise, 

Have I not groaned under the experience of 

similar horrors, from the hour when I was first shut 
up (under lock and key, I believe) to indite a du- 
tiful epistle to an honoured aunt ? I remember, as 
if it had occurred but yesterday, the moment when 
she, who had enjoined the task, entered to inspect 
the performance, for which, by her calculation, am- 
ple time had been allowed me — I remember how 
sheepishly I hung down my head, and began twitch- 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 139 

ing to pieces the feathery top of my pen, when she 
snatched from before me the paper, on which I had 
made no farther progress than, " My dear Ant" an- 
grily exclaiming, " What, child ! have you been shut 
up here three hours to call your aunt a pi&aiire !" 

From that horn- of humiliation, I hav^e too often 
groaned under the endurance of like penance ; and 
have learnt, from my own sufferings, to commise- 
rate those of my dear sisters in affliction. To those 
distressed persons, then, I feel myself irresistibly 
impelled to offer a few hints, (the fruit of long and 
bitter experience,) which, if they have not been al- 
ready suggested by their own observation, may prove 
serviceable in the horn' of emergency. 

Let them, or suppose I address myself to 

one particular sufferer ; — there is something more sa- 
tisfactory, more confidential, in communicating one's 
ideas, when, as Moore says, " heart speaks to heart !" 
— Therefore, dear sister in affliction, to you I address 
myself. And, first, I recommend, — Take always spe- 
cial care to write by candlelight ; for not only is the 
apparently unimportant operation of snuffing the 
candle in itself a momentary relief to the depressing 
consciousness of mental vacuum, but not unfrequent- 



140 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING, 



ly that trifling manual exertion, together with the 
brightening flame of the taper, elicits, as it were, a 
sympathetic spark of /fortunate conception from the 
dull embers of the brain. Should such a one occur, 
seize it quickly and dexterously, but, at the same 
time, with tender caution, so as not to huddle up 
and contract in one short, paltry sentence, that which, 
if ingeniously managed, may be beat out, and wire- 
drawn, so as to undulate smoothly and gracefully 
over a whole page. For the more skilful practice of 
this invaluable art of dilating, it will be expedient to 
stock your memory with a large assortment of those 
precious words of many syllables that fill whole lines 
at once ; " incomprehensibly, — amazingly, — indubi- 
tably, — inconceivably, — incontrovertibly," &c. &c. 
These words have not only, to the eye, a fine gene- 
ral effect, but, if the letter is read aloud, there is 
something very imposing in the mere sound of them ; 
and a long paragraph about nothing, composed in 
this grand rolling style, will, nine times out of ten, 
pass current for very fine writing, when a pithy sen- 
tence, full of excellent matter, will be skimmed over 
with contempt, if 

" Ten low words creep slow in one dull line." 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 141 

An opportunity of introducing these thunderers is 
invaluable to a distressed spinner, besides that they 
are really as delightful to trace on the paper, as a 
copy all m's and n's is to a child, — " Command you 
may, your mind from play." 

I have known a judicious selection of such, cun- 
ningly arranged, and neatly linked together with a 
few monosyllables, interjections, and epithets, (the 
two latter may be liberally used with good general 
effect,) so worked up as to form altogether a very 
respectable, and even elegant composition ; such as, 
amongst the best judges of that peculiar style, has 
been pronounced "a charming letter !" — and yet, by 
more homely, matter-of-fact readers, it would not, per- 
haps, have been allowed to contain one sentence of 
meaning in the whole three pages, two ends, and 
precious little bit under the seal ! 

Then the pause — the break — has altogether a pic- 
turesque effect ; long-tailed " down-sweeping" and 
" up-s waling" letters, and d's turning " jauntily" 
over, with a grand whisking curve like squirrels' 
tails, are not only beautiful in themselves, but the 
use of them necessarily creates such a space between 
the lines, as helps one honourably and expeditiously 



142 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 

over the ground to be covered. Your " down- 
sweepers/' in particular, may be dashed off so bold- 
ly, as beautifully to obscure the line underneath, 
without rendering it wholly illegible. This, how- 
ever, is but a minor elegance, — a mere illumination 
of the manuscript. I pass on to remarks of more 
importance. 

There is one expedient which, if judiciously resort- 
ed to, is of inestimable value, in times of extreme 
mental dearth, but requiring to be managed with such 
nice tact, that none but an experienced spinner should 
have recourse to it. You may contrive, by the help 
of a little alteration, amplification, and transposition, 
&c. &c. to amuse your correspondent with a recapi- 
tulation of the very matter which formed the ground- 
work of his or her last epistle to yourself. Should he 
detect this manoeuvre (against which the chances are 
at least equal) he will be restrained by good-breed- 
ing from making any observations to yourself on the 
subject, and indeed (if he be a candid and reason- 
able person) will either give you credit for the in- 
genious and obliging manner in which you have con- 
trived to refresh his memory, and to impress on it 
more indelibly those interesting points he had con- 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER- WRITING. 143 

ceived worthy to fix your attention. Again — you 
need not apprehend that he shall turn your own 
arms against you. The ammunition will be quite 
spent in your retort, so that it will still be his busi- 
ness to furnish fresh charges — everything (you per- 
ceive) at this game, depending on the first fire. 

This species of manoeuvre, as I have already ob- 
served, should by no means be rashly ventured on, 
but it is an art well worth the trouble of acquiring, 
at the expense of some pains and study — one (if 
you are so fortunate as to become a proficient in it) 
that will relieve you from all further anxiety on the 
score of letter-writing, furnishing you, at the expense 
of your correspondents, with ample materials for 
your own epistolary compositions. As to the strict 
honesty of this proceeding, no conscience need, I 
think, be so squeamish as to hesitate on the subject ; 
for, in fact, what has conscience to do with the style 
of correspondence under our present consideration ? 
It were well, in truth, if a fine lady's letter were often 
so honestly made up ; for (generally speaking) would 
not the abstract of such a one, fairly interpreted, 
run thus ? 



144 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 



My dearest Lady D. 

With feelings of the most inexpressibly affection- 
ate interest, I take up my pen to congratulate you 
on the marriage of your lovely accomplished Ale- 
thea. 

To you, who know every thought of my heart, it 
is almost unnecessary to say, that next to the mater- 
nal tenderness with which I watch over my own 
girls, I am most anxiously interested in eveiything 
that relates to your charming family. 

That sweet love Alethea, has always, you know, 
been my peculiar favourite ; and tears of exulting 
tenderness swell into my eyes, when I think of the 
brilliant establishment you have secured for her. 

Our long intimacy, my beloved friend, and my 
maternal affection for the dear creature, are pleas 
which I shall urge in claiming the delightful office 
of presenting her. With what pride shall I c 3 the 
superb V — diamonds in her lovely auburn locks. 

Soon, very soon, friend of my heart ! may I have 
to congratulate you on some equally advantageous 
establishment for your sweet delicate Anna Maria. 

5 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 145 
YOU TIRESOME OLD ToAD, 

You've manoeuvred off one of your gawky frights 
at last ; and I must say something on the occasion. 



How the deuce did you contrive to hook that 
noodle of a lord, when I have been angling ever since 
he came of age to catch him for my eldest girl ? 



That pert minx Alethea has always been my pe- 
culiar aversion ; and I'm ready to cry with spite at 
the idea of her being a Countess. 

You can't hobble to court on your crutches, so I, 
forsooth, shall be asked to present her Ladyship — 
and I must do it, though I know I shall expire with 
vexation at seeing the V — diamonds in her odious 
red hair. 

One comfort is, you'll never be able to get off that 
little humpbacked thing Anna Maria ; and you know 
well enough there's no hope of it, so hate to be talk- 
ed to about her. 

K 



146 THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING, 

I earnestly hope that foolish story (which you 
have heard of course) about Lord V.'s keeping an 
opera girl at Paris, and having lost L. 10,000 at the 
Salon, at one sitting, will not reach the ear of our 
sweet sensitive girl. But people are so malicious ! 

Where are your two lovely boys ? We have not 
seen them since they came from Eton, and you 
know how I delight in their charming spirits. 



&c. &c. &c. &c. &c. 
And remains ever, 

With the most inviolable attachment, 
My dearest Lady D.'s 

Most truly affectionate, 

M.G. 



THOUGHTS ON LETTER-WRITING. 147 

You won't care much about it, even if it were 
true : but I can think of nothing else to plague the 
old cat. I'll take care the young one shall know it 
somehow. 

I'd as lieve have a couple of wild-cats turn'd loose 
into my drawing-room as those two riotous cubs. 
But I've nine girls to bring out yet, and the young 
M.'s will be tolerable catches, though only honour- 
ables. 

Fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge ! 

I think I have given you enough for one dose, 
though I am afraid you're up to me. 

I hate you cordially ; that's certain. 

M. G. 



C 148 ] 



« THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. 



There is a tongue in every leaf, 

A voice in every rill ! 
A voice that speaketh everywhere, 
In flood and fire, through earth and air, 

A tongue that's never still. 

? Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused 

Through everything we see, 
That with our spirits communeth 
Of things mysterious — Life and Death- 
Time and Eternity. 



THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF, 149 

I see him in the blazing sun, 

And in the thunder-cloud— 
I hear him in the mighty roar, 
That rusheth through the forest hoar 

When winds are piping loud, 

I see him, hear him everywhere, 

In all things — Darkness, Light, 
Silence and Sound — but, most of all, 
When slumber's dusky curtains fall 

At the dead hour of night. 

I feel him in the silent dews 

By grateful earth betray' d — 
I feel him in the gentle showers, 
The soft south wind — the breath of flowers — 

The sunshine and the shade. 

And yet, ungrateful that I am ! 

IVe turn'd in sullen mood 
From all these things, — whereof he said ? 
When the great work was finished, 

That they were " Very good !" 



150 THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF, 

My sadness on the fairest things 

Fell like unwholesome dew — 
The darkness that encompassed me, 
The gloom I felt so palpably, 

Mine own dark spirit threw. 

Yet he was patient, slow to wrath, 

Though ev'ry day provoked 
By selfish, pining discontent, 
Acceptance cold, or negligent, 

And promises revoked. 

And still the same rich feast was spread 

For my insensate heart. 
Not always so — I woke again 
To join creation's rapt'rous strain, — - 

" Oh Lord ! how good Thou art !" 

The clouds drew up, the shadows fled, 
The glorious sun broke out — 

And Love, and Hope, and Gratitude, 

Dispell'd that miserable mood 
Of darkness and of doubt. 



C 151 ] 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 



My child was beautiful and brave ! 

An opening flower of spring ! 
He moulders in a distant grave, 

A cold forgotten thing. 
Forgotten ! — Ay, by all but me, 
As e'en the best beloved must be — 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 

Methinks 't had been a comfort now 
To have caught his parting breath — 

Had I been near, from his damp brow 
To wipe the dews of death — 

With one long ling'ring kiss to close 

His eyelids for the last repose — 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 



152 the mother's lament. 

I little thought such wish to prove 

When cradled on my breast ; 
With all a mother's cautious love 

His sleeping lids I prest. 
Alas ! alas ! his dying head 
Was pillow' d on a colder bed — 

Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 

They told me Vict'ry's laurels wreath'd 
His youthful temples round — 

That " Vict'ry !" from his lips was breathed, 
The last exulting sound — 

Cold comfort to a mother's ear, 

That longed his living voice to hear— 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 

E'en so thy gallant father died, 
When thou, poor orphan child ! 

A helpless prattler at my side, 
My widowed grief beguiled. 

But now, bereaved of all in thee, 

What earthly voice shall comfort me ? — 
Farewell, farewell, my dearest ! 



[ 153 ] 



MY EVENING. 



Farewell, bright Sun ! mine eyes have watch'd 

Thine hour of waning light — 
And tender twilight ! fare thee well — 

And welcome star-crown' d night ! 

Pale ! serious I silent ! with deep spell 

Lulling the heart to rest ; 
As lulls the mother's low sweet song, 

The infant on her breast. 

Mine own beloved hour ! — mine own ! 

Sacred to quiet thought, 
To sacred mem'ries, to calm joys, 

With no false lustre fraught ! 



154 MY EVENING. 

Mine own beloved hour ! for now, 

Methinks, with garish day, 
I shut the world out, and with those 

Long lost, or far away, 

The dead, the absent, once again 
My soul holds converse free — 

To such illusions, Life ! how dull 
Thy best reality I 

The vernal nights are chilly yet, 

And cheerily, and bright, 
The hearth still blazes, flashing round 

Its ruddy, flick 'ring light. 

" Bring in the lamp so — set it there, 

Just show its veiled ray, 
(Leaving all else in shadowy tone,) 

Falls on my book and — stay — 

" Leave my work by me" — Well I love 

The needle's useful art ; — 
*Tis unambitious, — womanly, — 

And mine's a woman's heart. 



MY EVENING. 155 

Not that I ply with sempstress rage, 

As if for life, or bread ; — 
No, sooth to say — unconsciously 

Slackening the half-drawn thread, 

From fingers that (as spell-bound) stop, 

Pointing the needle wrong, 
Mine eyes towards the open book 

Stray oft, and tarry long. — 

" Stop ! stop ! Leave open the glass-door 

Into that winter bower ;" — 
For soon therein th' uprisen moon 

Will pour her silvery shower ; 

Will glitter on those glossy leaves ; 

On that white pavement shine : 
And dally with her eastern love, 

That wreathing jessamine. — 

" Thanks, Lizzy ! — No ; there's nothing more 

Thy loving zeal can do ; — 
Only — Oh yes ! — that gipsy flower,* 

Set that beside me too." — 

* The night-smelling stock, 



156 MY EVENING. 

" That Ethiop, in its china vase ?" — 
" Ay ; set it here; — that's right. — 

Shut the door after you." — 'Tis done ; 
I'm settled for the night. 

Settled and snug ; — and, first, as if 

The fact to ascertain, 
I glance around, and stir the fire, 

And trim the lamp again. 

Then, dusky flower ! I stoop t' inhale 

Thy fragrance. Thou art one, 
That wooeth not the vulgar eye, 

Nor the broad staring sun : 

Therefore I love thee ! — (Selfish love 

Such preference may be ;) 
That thou reservest all thy sweets, 

Coy thing ! for night and me. — 

What sound was that ? — Ah, Madam Puss ! 

I know that tender mew — 
That meek, white face — those sea-green eyes — 

Those whiskers, wet with dew, 






MY EVENING. 15? 

To the cold glass— the greenhouse glass — 

Press* d closely from without ; — 
Well, thou art heard — I'll let thee in, 

Though skulking home, no doubt, 

From lawless prowl. — Ah, ruthless cat ! 

What evil hast thou done ? 
What deeds of rapine, the broad eye 

Of open day that shun ? 

What ! not a feather pluck'd to-night ? 

Is that what thou wouldst tell, 
With that soft purr, those winking eyes, 

And waving tail ? — Well, well, 

/ know thee, friend ! — But get thee in. 

By Ranger stretch and doze ; — 
Nay, never growl, old man ! her tail 

Just whisk'd across thy nose. 

But 'twas no act premeditate, 

Thy greatness to molest : 
Then, with that long luxurious sigh ? 

Sink down again to rest ; 



158 MY EVENING. 

But not before one loving look 

Toward me, with that long sigh, 
Says, " Mistress mine ! all's right, all's well ! 

Thou it there, and here am 77" — 

That point at rest, we're still again. — 

I on my work intent ; 
At least, with poring eyes thereon, 

In seeming earnest bent : 

And fingers, nimble at their task, 

Mechanically true ; 
Tho' heaven knows where, what scenes, the while, 

My thoughts are travelling to ! 

Now far from earth — now over earth, 

Traversing lands and seas ; — 
Now stringing, in a sing-song mood, 

Such idle rhymes as these ; — 

Now dwelling on departed days, — 
Ah ! that's no lightsome mood ; — 

On those to come — no longer now 

Through Hope's bright focus view'd 






i 



MY EVENING. 159 

On that which is — ay, there I pause, 

No more in young delight ; 
But patient, grateful, well assured, 

" Whatever is, is right !" — 

And all to be is in His hands, — 
Oh, who would take it thence ? — 

Give me not up to mine own will, 
Merciful Providence ! — 

Such thought, when other thoughts may be 

Are darkening into gloom, 
Comes to me like the angel shape, 

That, standing by the tomb, 

Cheer'd those who came to sorrow there. — 

And then I see, and bless 
His love in all that he withholds, 

And all I still possess. — 

So varied, — now with book, or work, 

Or pensive reverie, 
Or waking dreams, or fancy flights, 

Or scribbling vein may be ; 



160 MY EVENING. 

Or eke the pencil's cunning craft, 

Or lowly murmured lay, 
To the according viola, — 

Calm evening slips away. 

The felt-shod hours move swiftly on, 

Until the stroke of ten 
(The accustom'd signal) summons round 

My little household. Then, 

The door unclosing, enters first 

That aged, faithful friend, 
Whose prayer is with her Master's child 

Her blameless days to end. 

The younger pair come close behind ; 

But her dear hand alone, — 
(Her dear old hand ! now tremulous 

With palsying weakness grown,) — 

Must rev'rently before me place 
The Sacred Book. — 'Tis there, — 

And all our voices, all our hearts, 
Unite in solemn prayer. 

6 






1VIY EVENING. 161 

In praise and thanksgiving, for all 

The blessings of the light ; 
In prayer, that He would keep us through 

The watches of the night. — 

A simple rite ! and soon perform'd ; 

Leaving, in every breast, 
A heart more fittingly prepared 

For sweet, untroubled rest. 

And so we part. — But not before, 

Deal' Nurse ! a kiss from thee 
Imprints my brow, Thy fond Good-night ! 

To God commending me !— 

Amen ! — and may His angels keep 

Their watch around thy bed, 
And guard from every hurtful thing 

That venerable head ! 



[ 162 ] 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS, 



Oh ! wear no mourning weeds for me, 
When I am laid i' the ground ! 

Oh ! shed no tears for one whose sleep 
Will then be sweet and sound ! — 

Only, my friends ! do this for me,— 
Pluck many a pale primrose, 

And strew them on my shroud, before 
The coffin-lid they close. 

And lay the heart's-ease on my breast, 
(Meet emblem there 'twill be,) 

And gently place in my cold hand 
A sprig of rosemary. 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIEKDS. 163 

And by the buried bones of those 
Whom living I loved best ; 

See me at last laid quietly- 
Then leave me to my rest. 

And when the church-bell tolls for me 

Its last, long, hollow knell ; 
As the deep murmur dies away, 

Bid me a kind farewell. — 

And, stay — Methinks there's something yet 

I'd fain request of ye ; 
Something — I'd bid ye comfort, keep, 

Or love, for love of me, — 

My nurse ! — Oh ! she will only wait 

Till I am fast asleep, 
Then close beside me, stealthily, ' 

To her own pillow creep. 

My dog ! — Poor fellow ! Let him not 
Know hunger — hardship — wron g — 

But he is old and feeble too — 
He will not miss me long. 



164 FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 

My dwelling ! — That will pass away 
To those, when I am gone, 

Will raze the lowly edifice 
To its foundation-stone. 

My flowers 1 — That in deep loneliness 
Have been as friends to me — 

My garden ! — That, let run to waste, 
A common field will be. 

My picture ! — That's already yours — 
Resemblance true, ye say — 

Oh, true indeed ! — A thing of dust, 
That vanisheth away 1 

My harp ! — But that's a fairy gift 
I can bequeath to none — 

Unearthly hands will take it back 
When the last strain is done. 

So then, I've nothing more to ask, 

And little left to give, 
And yet I know, in your kind hearts 

My memory will live. 



FAREWELL TO MY FRIENDS. 165 

And so farewell, my dear good friends ! 

And farewell, world, to thee — 
I part with some in love — With all 

In peace and charity. 



[ 166 ] 



THE PRIMROSE, 



I saw it in my evening walk, 

A little lonely flower ! 
Under a hollow bank it grew, 

Deep in a mossy bower. 

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave 
With Gothic fret-work sprung, 

Whence jewell'd fern, and arum leaves, 
And ivy garlands hung. 

And from beneath came sparkling out, 
From a fall'n tree's old shell, 

A little rill, that dipt about 
The lady in her cell. 



THE PRIMROSE. 167 

And there, methought, with bashful pride, 

She seem'd to sit and look 
On her own maiden loveliness, 

Pale imaged in the brook. 

No other flower — no rival grew 

Beside my pensive maid ; 
She dwelt alone, a cloister'd nun 

In solitude and shade. 

No sun-beam on that fairy well 

Darted its dazzling light — 
Only, methought, some clear, cold star 

Might tremble there at night. 

No ruffling wind could reach her there — 

No eye, methought, but mine, 
Or the young lamb's, that came to drink, 

Had spied her secret shrine. 

And there was pleasantness to me 

In such belief. Cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature's lowliness, 

Profane her mysteries. 



168 THE PRIMROSE. 

Long time I look'd and linger'd there, 
Absorb'd in still delight— 

My spirit drank deep quietness 
In, with that quiet sight, 



[ 169 ] 



FAREWELL TO GREECE, 



Farewell for ever, classic land 
Of tyrants and of slaves ! 

My homeward path lies far away 
Over the dark blue waves : 

And when I go, no marble fanes 
From Myrtle steeps arise, 

Nor shineth there such fervid suns 
From such unclouded skies. 

But yet, the earth of that dear land 

Is holier earth to me, 
Than thine, immortal Marathon, 

Or thine, Thermopylae 



170 FAREWELL TO GREECE. 

For there my father's ashes rest, 
And living hearts there be — 

Warm living hearts, and loving ones, 
That still remember me. 

And, oh ! the land that welcometh 
To one such bosom shrine, 

Though all beside were ruin'd — lost — 
That land would still be mine. 

Ay, mine ! — albeit the breath of life 
Not there I breathed first — 

Ay, mine ! — albeit with barrenness 
And polar darkness curst. 

The bird that wanders all day long, 
At sun-set seeks her nest— 

I've wander d long — my native land ! 
Now take me to thy rest. 



[ vn 3 



THE SMUGGLER. 



I spent the whole of last summer, and part of the 
ensiling winter, on the Hampshire coast, visiting 
successively most of its sea-ports and watering- 
places, and enjoying its beautiful diversity of sea 
and wood scenery, often so intermingled that the 
forest-trees dip down their flexile branches into the 
salt-waters of the solent sea ; and green lawns and 
heathy glades slope down to the edge of the silver 
sands, and not unfrequently to the very brink of the 
water. 

In no part of Hampshire is this characteristic 
beauty more strikingly exemplified than at the back 
of the Isle of Wight, that miniature abstract of all 



172 THE SMUGGLER. 

that is grand and lovely in the parent Isle, of which 
it is so aptly denominated " The Garden." 

Early in August, I crossed over from Portsmouth 
to Ryde, purposing to fix my head-quarters there, 
and from thence to make excursions to all such 
places as are accounted worthy the tourist's notice. 
But a guide-hook is at best an unsympathising com- 
panion, cold and formal (though not quite so tire- 
some) as the human machine that leads you oyer 
some old abbey, or venerable cathedral, pointing 
out, indeed, in its dull drowsy tone, unvaried to all 
visitors, the principal monuments or chapels, but 
passing by unnoticed a hundred less outwardly-dis- 
tinguished spots, when feeling would love to linger, 
and sentiment find inexhaustible sources of interest 
and contemplation. 

For lack of a better, however, I set out with my 
silent guide, but soon strayed wide of its directions, 
rambling hither and thither, often tarrying days and 
hours in places unhonoured by its notice, and per- 
versely deviating from the beaten road that would 
have conducted some more docile tourist, and one 
of less independent taste, to such or such a noble- 



THE SMUGGLER, 173 

man's or gentleman's seat, or summer-house, or pa- 
vilion, built on purpose to be visited and admired. 
But I did not shape my course thus designedly in a 
spirit of opposition to the mute director, whose not 
unserviceable clue led me at last among the roman- 
tic rocks and cottages of Shanklin, Niton, and Un- 
derclifF. It led me, indeed, to those enchanting spots, 
and to their beautiful vicinity, but to entice me 
thence was more than all its inviting promises could 
effect ; and, finally, I took up my abode for an in- 
definite time in a cottage of native grey-stone, back- 
ed by the solid rock, and tapestried in front with 
such an interwoven texture of rose and myrtle, as 
half-hid the little casements, and aspired far over the 
thatched roof and projecting eaves. 

Days, weeks, months, slipt away imperceptibly in 
this delicious retreat, and in all the luxury of loung- 
ing felicity. Mine was idleness, it is true — the sen- 
sation of perfect exemption from all existing neces- 
sity of mental or corporeal exertion — not suspension 
of ideas, but rather a festival of mind, during which 
the wild vagrant thought was at liberty to wander 
at will beyond the narrow boundaries, within which 



174 THE SMUGGLER. 

the cares, and claims, and business of this world, too 
often restrained her natural excursiveness. 

Summer passed away — the harvest was reaped and 
gathered into the barns — the hazel-hedges were de- 
spoiled of their last clusters of nuts — autumn ver- 
ged on the approach of winter — and I still tenanted 
the rock-cottage. Nowhere are we so tenderly made 
sensible of the changes of the season, as in the sea's 
immediate vicinity — and the back of the Isle of 
Wight is, of all stations on our coast, that where this 
common remark is most forcibly illustrated. Com- 
pletely screened from the north by a continuous wall 
of high rocky cliff, its shores are exposed only to the 
southern and westerly winds, and those are temper* 
ed to the peculiar softness always — almost always, 
perceptible in sea-breezes — on a mild autumns day, 
or bright winter's morning, when the sun sparkles on 
the white sands and scentillating waves — or on the 
waveless mirror of the deep blue sea — on the sails of 
the little fishing-boats, that steal along-shore with 
their wings spread open like large butterflies — on 
the glancing silver of the sea-gull's wings, as she 
dives after her finny prey, or flashes upward through 



THE SMUGGLER. 175 

a shower of feathery foam — or on the tall grey cliffs, 
tinted with many-coloured lichens. A lounger on 
the beach will hardly perceive that the year is in 
" its sear and yellow leaf," or already fallen into the 
decrepitude of winter. And when his awful heralds, 
the unchained elements, proclaim aloud that the hoary 
tyrant hath commenced his reign — when the winds 
are let loose from their caverns, and the agitated 
sea rolls its waves in mountainous ridges on the 
rocky coast — when the porpoise heaves up its black 
bulk, and disports itself with uncouth gambols amidst 
the foam of the shallower waters — when the cormo- 
rant's screams mingle in harsh concord with the 
howling blast. Then ! — oh then ! who can tear him- 
self from the contemplation of a scene, more sub- 
limely interesting than all the calm loveliness of a 
summer prospect ? To me, its attractions were irre- 
sistible ; and besides those of inanimate nature, I 
found other sources of lively interest, in studying 
the character and habits of the almost amphibious 
dwellers on that island coast. Generally speaking, 
there is something peculiarly interesting in the cha- 
racter of seafaring men — even of those whose voy- 



176 THE SMUGGLER. 

ages have extended little beyond the windings of 
their own shores. The fisherman's life, indeed, may 
be accounted one of the most incessant peril. For 
daily bread, he must brave daily dangers. In that 
season when the tiller of the ground rests from his 
labours — when the artisan and mechanic are warmly 
housed — when the dormouse and the squirrel sleep 
in their soft woolly nests, and the little birds find 
shelter in hollow-trees and banks, or migrate to 
milder regions, the poor fisherman must encounter 
all the fury of the combined elements, for his chil- 
dren's bread is scattered on the waters. 

It is this perpetually enforced familiarity with 
danger, that interests our feelings so powerfully in 
their behalf, together with its concomitant effects on 
their character — undaunted hardihood, insurmount- 
able perseverance, almost heroic daring, and, gene- 
rally speaking, a simplicity of heart, and a tender- 
ness of deportment towards the females and the 
little ones of their families, finely contrasting their 
rugged exterior. But, unfortunately, it is not only 
in their ostensible calling of fishermen, that these 
xnen are forward in enronting danger. The tempta- 

6 



THE SMUGGLER, 177 

tions held out by contraband traffic, too often allure 
them from their honest and peaceable avocations, to 
brave the laws of their country, and encounter the 
most fearful risks in pursuit of precarious, though 
sometimes considerable gains. Of late, this despe- 
rate trade has extended almost to a regularly-orga- 
nized system ; and in spite of all the preventive mea- 
sures adopted by the government of the country, it 
is too obvious, that the number of these " free tra- 
ders" is yearly increasing, and that their hazardous 
commerce is more daringly and more vigorously car- 
ried on. Along the Hampshire coast, and more par- 
ticularly in the Isle of Wight, almost every sea- 
faring man is concerned in it to a greater or less 
extent. For the most part, they are connected in se- 
cret associations, both for co-operation and defence ; 
and there is a sort of freemasonry amongst them, the 
signs and tokens of which are soon discernible to an 
attentive observer, and one whose unofficial charac- 
ter awakens no distrust on their part. " The Cus- 
tom-house Sharks," as they call them, are not their 
most formidable foes, for they wage a more despe- 
rate warfare (as recent circumstances have too*fa- 

M 



178 THE SMUGGLER. 

tally testified) with that part of our naval armament 
employed by Government on the preventive service. 
Some of the vessels on those stations are perpetually 
hovering along our coasts ; but in spite of their ut- 
most vigilance, immense quantities of contraband 
goods are almost nightly landed, and nowhere with 
more daring frequency than in the Isle of Wight. 

In my rambles along its shores, the inhabitants of 
almost every cottage and fisherman's cabin, for many 
miles round, became known to me. I have at all 
times a peculiar pleasure in conversing with this 
class of people — in listening with familial* interest 
(to which they are never insensible) to the details 
of their feelings and opinions, and to the homely 
history of their obscure lives and domestic cares. 

With some of my new acquaintances, I had ven- 
tured to expostulate on the iniquitous as well as ha- 
zardous nature of their secret traffic ; and many wives 
and mothers sanctioned, with approving looks and 
half-constrained expressions, my remonstrances to 
their husbands and sons. These, for the most part, 
listened in sullen, down-looking silence, (not. how- 
evtr, expressive of ill-will towards me,) or some- 



THE SMUGGLER. 179 

times answered my expostulations with the remark, 
that " Poor folk must live ;" — that half of them, du- 
ring the war, had earned an honest livelihood in chan- 
nels that were now closed against them. They were 
turned adrift to shift for themselves, and must do 
something to get bread for their little ones. " And 
after all," they would generally conclude, " while 
the rich and great folks, and some of those that 
made the laws, too," (their ladies and daughters at 
least,) " were pleased to encourage their trade, it 
was a plain case they could not think much harm of 
those that carried it on." 

This last was a stinging observation — one that 
generally silenced me for the moment, while it gave 
fresh fervency to my earnest wish, that the penalties 
of the law could be enforced ten, twenty, nay, an 
hundred fold, on those rich and great ones, who, in 
the mere wantonness of vanity, luxury, or idleness, 
tempted these poor creatures to offend, and subject- 
ed them to the severe, but necessary awards, of re- 
tributive justice. 

Among those poor families was one, at whose ca- 
bin I stopped oftenest, and lingered longest, in my 



180 THE SMUGGLER. 

evening rambles. The little dwelling was in a man- 
ner wedged into a cleft of the grey rock, up which, 
on every little shelf-like platform, the hand of in- 
dustry had accumulated garden-mould, and fostered 
a beautiful vegetation ; and, immediately before it, a 
patch of the loveliest greensward sloped down to the 
edge of the sea-sand, enamelled with aromatic wild 
thyme, and dotted, nearest the ocean, with tufts of 
thrift, centaury, and eringo, and with the gold-co- 
loured blossoms of the horn poppy. The romantic 
appearance and peculiar neatness of the little cabin, 
had early attracted my attention, which was further 
interested by the singular appearance of its owner. 
He was a large, tall man, of about sixty, distinguish- 
ed by an air of uncommon dignity, and by an ac- 
coutrement, the peculiarity of which, combined with 
his commanding carriage, and countenance of bold 
daring, always brought the Buccaneer of old times 
to my remembrance. He wore large, loose trowsers, 
of shaggy, dark blue cloth ; a sort of woollen vest, 
broadly striped with the same colour, for the most 
part open at the throat and bosom, and girt in below 
with a broad leathern belt, in which a brace of horse- 



THE SMUGGLER. 181 

pistols were generally stuck, and not unfrequently 
an old cutlass ; and over his shoulder was slung a 
cross-belt of broad white knitting, to which was sus- 
pended a powder-flask, a leathern pouch, and often 
a short, thick duck-gun. A dark fur cap was the 
usual covering of his head; and his thick, black, 
curling hah*, was not so much intermingled with 
grey, as streaked here and there with locks of per- 
fect whiteness. Add to this costume, a fortnight's 
growth of grizzly, stubborn beard, (the crop was 
seldom of less standing,) and such was the tout en- 
semble of this uncommon personage. Notwithstand- 
ing this formidable equipment, however, his osten- 
sible employment was the harmless one of a fisher of 
the deep, — though, to all appearance, not very zea- 
lously pursued ; for, in the day time, he was oftener 
to be seen lying along the shore in the broad sun- 
shine, or sauntering by the water's edge, or perched 
like a sea-fowl, immoveable for hours, on some com- 
manding station of the crag, always with a pipe in 
his mouth — a meer-schaum pipe — (uncommon luxu- 
ry for an English boatman !) and a spy-glass ever in 
his hand, or at his eye. He was oftener to be seen 



182 THE SMUGGLER. 

thus, or cleaning the lock of his gun under the sha- 
dow of some projecting cliff, than busied with the 
trawling-net, or the eel-spear, or the hook and line, 
in his little boat, or mending her sails, or his nets, by 
the cabin door. At almost all hours of the night a 
light was seen burning within the cottage ; and the 
master of the family, with his son, was invariably 
absent, when, as it often chanced with me, I looked 
in on them after dark, on my return from some dis- 
tant spot to my own habitation. 

At such an hour, I was sure to find the female 
inmates, (the wife and daughter of the man I have 
been describing,) in a state of evident perturbation, 
for which it was easy to assign a sufficient cause; 
but I had remonstrated in vain with the infatuated 
husband and father, and it was still more fruitless to 
argue with the helpless women. 

Richard Campbell was not a native of the Isle of 
Wight, nor one trained, from his youth up, " to go 
down to the sea in ships, and occupy his business in 
deep waters." 

For many generations his family had owned and 
cultivated a small farm in the north of England. 



THE SMUGGLER. 183 

Himself bad been bred a tiller of the ground, con- 
trary to his own wishes, which had pointed, from his 
very cradle, to a sea-faring life ; and all his hours of 
boyish pastime and youthful leisure, were spent on 
the salt element, close to which, at the head of a 
small bay or inlet, lay his paternal farm. Just as he 
had attained his twentieth year his father died, lea- 
ving him, (an only child,) the inheritor of all his little 
property, and at liberty to follow the bent of his own 
inclinations. 

The temptation was strong. Tumultuous wishes 
and roving thoughts were busy in his heart; but 
" he was the only son of his mother, and she was a 
widow." He staid to comfort her old age, and to 
cultivate his little inheritance ; partly influenced also 
by his attachment to a pretty blue-eyed girl, whose 
sweeter smiles rewarded his filial piety, and whose 
hand in wedlock was, shortly after, its richer re- 
compence. 

The widowed mother continued to dwell under 
her son's roof, tended like Naomi, by a daughter-in- 
law, as loving and dutiful as Ruth, but happier than 
the Hebrew matron, in the possession of both her 
children. 



184 



THE SMUGGLER, 



Many children were born to the young couple, 
" as likely boys and girls as ever the sun shone 
upon," said the wife of Campbell; from whom, at 
sundry times, I collected the simple annals I am re- 
lating. « But God was very good to them. He bade 
their store increase with their increasing family, and 
provided bread for the little mouths that were sent 
to crave for it. She never grudged her own labour ; 
and a better or a kinder husband than she was 
blessed with, never woman had. To be sure he had 
his fancies and particular ways ; and, when he could 
steal a holiday, all his delight was to spend it on the 
salt waves, (the worse luck !) for many an anxious 
hour had she known even then, when he was out in 
his little boat, shooting wild fowl, in the wild winter 
nights. But no harm ever came to him; only their 
eldest boy, their dear Maurice," (the mother never 
named him without glistening eyes,) « took after his 
father's fancy for the sea, and set his heart upon be- 
ing a sailor." And the father called to mind his own 
youthful longings, and would not control those of 
his child ; especially as he had yet another son, a 
fine promising lad, who took kindly to the farming 



THE SMUGGLER. 185 

business, and already lightened his fathers labour. 
The mother heard all, and " spake not a word though 
her heart was fit to break," for her sons choice was 
sanctioned by his father's approbation, but sorely she 
grieved at parting with her first-born, (what feelings 
are like those of a mother towards her first-born ?) 
and the young Maurice was her most loving and 
dutiful child, and she had reared him with such care 
as only mothers can bestow, through the perilous 
years of a sickly infancy. But the father jested with 
her fears, and entered with the ardour of a boyish 
heart into his son's enterprising hopes ; and at last 
the youth (who could not rest satisfied with her 
silent acquiescence) wrung from her a faltering and 
reluctant consent. And when she shook her head 
mournfully at his promises, of bringing rare and 
beautiful things from foreign parts for her and all his 
sisters, coaxed a half smile into her tearful looks, by 
concluding with — " And then, mother ! I will stay 
quiet at home amongst you all, and never want to 
leave you again. ,, — " My Maurice sailed away," said 
the mother, " and from that time everything went 
wrong. Before he had been gone a month, we bu- 



186 THE SMUGGLER. 

ried my husband's mother, but God called her away 
in a good old age, so we had no right to take on 
heavily at her loss, though we felt it sorely, and so 
did all our little ones, who had learned to read their 
bible on her knees." 

In addition to his own land, Campbell cultivated 
several acres, which he rented of a neighbouring 
gentleman, whose disposition was restlessly litigious, 
and Campbell's being unhappily fiery and impetuous, 
disputes arose between them, and proceeded to such 
lengths, that both parties finally referred their dif- 
ferences to legal arbitrement. After many tedious, 
and apparently frivolous delays, particularly trying 
to Campbell's irritable nature, the cause came on, 
and sentence was given in favour of his opponent ; 
and from that hour he adopted the firm persuasion, 
that justice, impartial justice, was unattainable in 
the land of his fathers. 

This fatal prejudice turned all his thoughts to bit- 
terness — haunted him like a phantom in his fields — 
by his cheerful hearth — in his once peaceful bed, in 
the very embraces of his children, " who were born/' 
he would tell them in the midst of their innocent ca- 



THE SMUGGLER. 1ST 

resses, " slaves and bond-servants in the land where 
their fathers had been free men." 

In this state of mind he listened, with eager cre- 
dulity, to the speculative visions of a few agricultural 
adventurers, who had embarked their small capitals 
on American adventure, and were on the eve of 
quitting their native country to seek wealth, liberty, 
and independence, in the back settlements of the 
United States. 

In an evil hour Campbell was prevailed on to em- 
bark his fortunes with those of the self-expatriated 
emigrants. 

The teal's and entreaties of his wife and children 
availed not to deter him from his rash purpose, and 
the unhappy mother was torn from her beloved home, 
where her heart lingered with a thousand tender re- 
miniscences, and most tenaciously of all, in the affect- 
ing thought, that if ever her absent sailor return- 
ed to his native country, his first steps would be 
directed to the once happy dwelling of his parents, 
where the cold looks of the stranger would be all his 
welcome. 

The ship on board which the Campbells were em- 



188 THE SMUGGLER. 

barked, with their rive remaining children, and all 
their worldly goods, performed two-thirds of her 
course with prosperous celerity : But as she neared 
her wished-for haven, the wind, which had hitherto 
been uninterruptedly favourable, became unsteady, 
then contrary, so that they lost sea-way for many 
days. At last a storm, which had been gather- 
ing with awfully gradual preparation, burst forth 
with tremendous fury. Three days and nights the 
vessel drove before it ; but on the fourth the masts 
and rigging went overboard, and before the wreck 
could be cut away, a plank in the ship's side was 
stove in by the floating timbers. In the general 
hurry and confusion, when all hands were employed 
in hacking away the encumbrances and getting up 
jury masts, the leak remained undiscovered, till the 
water in the hold had gained to a depth of many 
feet ; and though the pumps were set to work, and 
kept going, by the almost superhuman exertions of 
crew and passengers, all was unavailing, and to be- 
take themselves to the boat was the last hurried and 
desperate resource. Campbell had succeeded in 
lowering his three youngest children into the long- 



THE SMUGGLER. 189 

boat, already crowded with their fellow-sharers in 
calamity, and was preparing to send down his young- 
est son and daughter, and to follow them with their 
mother in his arms, when a woman, pressing before 
him with frantic haste, leapt down into the over- 
loaded boat, which upset in an instant, and the pe- 
rishing cry of twenty drowning creatures mingled 
with the agonizing shrieks of parents, husbands, and 
children, from the deck of the sinking ship. One 
other boat was yet alongside ; and Campbell was at 
last seated in her, with his two remaining children 
and their unconscious mother, who had sunk into a 
state of blessed insensibility, when the drowning 
screams of her lost little ones rang in her ears. Five 
and twenty persons were wedged in this frail bark, 
with a cask of water and a small bag of biscuit. An 
old sail had been flung down with these scanty stores, 
which they contrived to hoist, on the subsiding of 
the storm, towards the evening of their first day's 
commitment, in that " forlorn hope/' to the wide 
world of waters. Their compass had gone down in 
the long-boat, and faint indeed were their hopes of 
ever reaching land, from which they had no means 



190 THE SMUGGLER. 

of computing their distance. But the unsleeping eye 
of Providence watched over them ; and on the fourth 
day of their melancholy progress, a sail making to- 
wards them was descried on the verge of the hori- 
zon. It neared, and the ship proved to be a home- 
ward-bound West India trader, on board which the 
perishing creatures were received with prompt hu- 
manity ; and on her reaching her appointed haven 
(Portsmouth), Campbell, with his companions in 
misfortune, and the remnant of his late flourishing 
family, once more set foot on British earth. He had 
saved about his person a small residue of his proper- 
ty, but wholly insufficient to equip them for a second 
attempt, had he even been so obstinately bent on the 
prosecution of his Transatlantic scheme, as to per- 
sist in it against (what appeared to him) the declared 
will of Providence. Once, in his younger days, he 
had visited the Isle of Wight ; and the remembrance 
of its bowery cottages, and beautiful bays, were yet 
fresh in his mind. He crossed over with his family, 
and a few weeks put him in possession of a neat 
cabin and small fishing-boat ; and for a time, the 
little family was subsisted in frugal comfort, by the 



THE SMUGGLER. 191 

united industry of the father and son. Soon after 
their settlement in the Island, their daughter (matu- 
red to lovely womanhood) married a respectable and 
enterprizing young man, the owner of a pilot-vessel. 
In the course of three years, she brought her husband 
as many children ; and during that time all went 
well with them. But her William's occupation (a 
lucrative one in war-time) exposed him to frequent 
and fearful dangers ; and one tempestuous winter's 
night, having ventured out to the assistance of a 
foundering sloop, his own little vessel perished in 
the attempt ; and the morning's tide floated her hus- 
band's corpse to the feet of his distracted wife, as she 
stood on the sea-beach, watching every white sail 
that became visible through the haze of the grey- 
clouded dawn. 

The forlorn widow and her orphan babes found a 
refuge in her father's cabin ; and he and his son re- 
doubled their laborious exertions for their support. 
But these were heavy claims ; and the poor family 
but just contrived to live and struggle on, barely 
supplied with even the coarsest necessaries. When 
temptation assails the poor man, by holding out to 



192 THE SMUGGLER. 

his grasp the means of lessening the hardships and 
privations of those dear to him as his own soul, shall 
we deal out to him hard measure of judgment, and 
make more indulgent allowance for those who, with- 
out the same excuses to plead, set him the example 
of yielding ? 

Campbell (having first been seduced into casual 
and inconsiderable ventures) was at last enrolled in 
the gang of smugglers who earned on their perilous 
trade along the coast — and from that time, though 
comparative plenty revisited his cottage, and even 
seasons of temporary abundance, the careless smile 
of innocent security no longer beamed on the faces 
of its elder inmates. Margaret struggled long, with 
well-principled firmness, against the infatuation of 
her husband and son ; but flushed with success, em- 
boldened by association with numbers, and finally 
rendered by habit quite insensible to the moral tur- 
pitude of their proceedings, they resisted her anxious 
remonstrances ; and at last, heart-sick of fruitless 
opposition, and shrinking from the stern rebuke and 
angry frown of him who had been for so many happy 
years the affectionate partner of her joys and sor- 



THE SMUGGLER. 193 

rows, she first passively acquiesced in their unlaw- 
ful traffic, and in the end was brought to contribute 
her share towards its furtherance, by secretly dis- 
posing of the prohibited articles. 

During my residence in the Isle of Wight, I had 
become acquainted with two or three families resi- 
dent within a few miles of the spot where I had 
taken up my habitation, With one of these, consist- 
ing of a widow lady of rank and her two grown-up 
daughters, I had been previously acquainted in Lon- 
don, and at other places. They had been recom- 
mended by the medical adviser of the youngest 
daughter, who was threatened by a pulmonary affec- 
tion, to try the effects of a winter at the back of the 
Island ; and I was agreeably surprised to find them 
inhabitants of a beautiful villa, " a cottage of humi- 
lity," at about three miles' distance from my own 
cabin at the under cliff. They were agreeable and 
accomplished women ; and a few hours spent in their 
company formed a pleasing, and not unfrequent va- 
riety in my solitary life ; and, in the dearth of so- 
ciety incident to their marine retreat, my fair friends 
condescended to tolerate, and even welcome the 



194 THE SMUGGLER. 

eccentric old batchelor with their most gracious 
smiles. 

One November evening, my ramble had termina- 
ted at the Villa ; and I had just drawn my chair into 
the cheerful circle round the tea-table, when a pow- 
dered footman entered with a very knowing look, and 
spoke a few words, in a mysterious half-whisper, to 
his lady, who smilingly replied aloud, " Oh, tell her 
to come in ; there is no one here, of whose observa- 
tion she need be apprehensive.' ' The communica- 
tion of which assurance quickly ushered into the 
room my new acquaintance Margaret Campbell. An 
old rusty black bonnet was pulled down so as al- 
most to shade her face from sight ; and her dingy 
red cloak (under which she carried some bulky par- 
cel) was strained tight round a figure that seemed 
endeavouring to contract itself into the least possible 
compass. At sight of me she started and shrunk 
back, dropping her eyes with a fearful curtsey. 
" Ah, Margaret !" I exclaimed, too well divining th( 
secret of her darkling embassy. But the lady of the 
house encouraged her to advance,, saying, " Oh ! 
never mind Mr r. » ■ ., he will not inform against us, 



THE SMUGGLER. 195 

though lie shakes his head so awfully. Well ! have 
you brought the tea?" — " And the lace, and gloves, 
and the silk scarfs?" chimed in the young ladies, 
with eager curiosity sparkling in their eyes, as they 
almost dragged the precious budget, with their own 
fair hands, from beneath the poor woman's cloak. 
" Have you brought our scarfs at last ? What a time 
we have been expecting them !" — " Yes indeed," 
echoed Lady Mary ; " and depending on your pro- 
mise, I have been quite distressed for tea. There is 
really no dependence on your word, Mrs Campbell ; 
and yet I have been at some pains to impress on you 
a due sense of your Christian duties, amongst which, 
you have often heard me remark (and I am sure the 
tracts I have given you inculcate the same doctrine) 
that a strict attention to truth is one of the most 
essential. Well ! where's the tea?" "Oh my lady," 
answered the poor woman, with a humbly depre- 
cating tone and look, " if you did but know what 
risks we run to get these things, and how uncertain 
our trade is, you would not wonder that we cannot 
always oblige our customers so punctually as we 
would wish, IVe brought the scarfs and the other 



196 THE SMUGGLER. 

things for the young ladies ; but the tea — " " What, 
no tea yet ! Really, it is too bad, Mrs Campbell ; 
I must try if other people are not more to be de- 
pended on ; and, indeed, my maid has lately recom- 
mended to me a friend of hers, who is, she assures 
me, the most punctual creature in the world, as well 
as a very serious person, and desirous, besides, of 
subscribing to my penny collection for the conver- 
sion of the Hindoos, which you know I have never 
succeeded in getting you to do regularly, though I 
gave you that affecting tract, with the pictures, about 
Jaggernaut ; and, in short, Mrs Campbell " " In- 
deed, indeed, my lady, we have tried hard to get the 
goods for your ladyship, and your ladyship may stop 
the last three weeks for Jiggernot out of the pay- 
ment for the scarfs, and you shall have the tea a bar- 
gain ; but there's such a sharp look-out, now, and the 
Ranger has been cruizing off the island for this week 
past, and our people haven't been able to get nothing 
ashore ; and yet I'm sure my husband and son have 
been upon the watch along the beach, and in the 
boat, these three nights, in all this dreadful weather : 
and to-night, though it blows a gale, they're out 



THE SMUGGLER. 197 

again, God help 'em !" And the poor woman cast 
a tearful shuddering glance towards the window, 
against which (sounding wildly through the triple 
barrier of blinds, shutters, and the thick rich folds of 
the crimson curtains) a tempest of wind and sleet 
drove uproariously. 

The lady condescended to be appeased by these 
assurances, that the foreign luxury should be ob- 
tained for her that night, if human exertions, made 
at the peril of human life, could succeed in landing 
it. The silks, &c. were examined, and approved of 
by the young ladies, and finally taken and paid for, 
after a world of haggling about " the price of blood !" 
as the purchase-money might too justly have been 
denominated, and after deducting from it, by their 
mamma's direction, Margaret's arrear of three-pence 
to her ladyship's Hindoo collection. 

Mrs Campbell received her money with a heavy 
sigh, and humbly curtseying, withdrew from the pre- 
sence, not without (involuntarily as it seemed) steal- 
ing an abashed glance of my countenance, as she 
passed me. She was no sooner out of the room, 
than her fair customers began expatiating with rap- 



198 THE SMUGGLER. 

turous volubility on the beauty and cheapness of 
their purchases, an inconsistency of remark that 
puzzled me exceedingly, as, not five minutes before, 
while bargaining with the seller, they had averred 
her goods to be of very inferior manufacture, and 

exorbitantly dear. " Ay, but -" observed the 

managing mamma, " you were both in such a hurry, 
or you might have made better bargains. But it's 
always the way ; and yet I kept winking at you all 
the while. I should have got those things half as 
cheap again." 

Indulgent as I am by nature to the little whims and 
foibles of the sex, I could not, on the present occasion, 
refrain from hinting to my fair friends a part of what 
was passing in my mind. At first they laughed at my 
quizzical scruples, resorting, for their defence, to the 
common -place remark, that " the few trifles they 
occasionally purchased, could make no material dif- 
ference ; for that the people would smuggle all the 
same, and meet with plenty of encouragement from 
others, if not from them." And when I pressed the 
question a little further, suggesting to their con- 
sciences, whether all who encouraged the forbidden 



THE SMUGGLER. 199 

traffic were not, in great measure, responsible for the 
guilt incurred, and the lives lost in the prosecution 
of it, they bid me not talk of such horrid things, 
and hurried away their recent purchases in a sort of 
disconcerted silence, that spoke anything rather than 
remorse, and purposed reformation. My " sermon- 
ising," as it was termed, seemed to have thrown a 
spell over the frank sociability that usually charac- 
terized our evening coteries. Conversation languish- 
ed — the piano was out of tune, and the young ladies' 
voices not in tune. Their mamma broke her netting 
silk every three minutes ; and, from a dissertation 
on the rottenness of modern silk, digressed insensi- 
bly into the subject of foreign missions, ladies' com- 
mittees, and branch Bible associations ; ever aifi 
anon, as the storm waxed louder and louder, inter- 
spersing her remarks with pathetic lamentations at 
the perverseness with which the very elements seem- 
ed to conspire with government against the safe 
landing of the commodities her " soul longed after." 
The storm did indeed rage fearfully, and its in- 
creasing violence warned me to retrace my home- 
ward way, before the disappearance of a yet glim- 



200 THE SMUGGLER. 

mering moon should leave me to pursue it in total 
darkness. Flapping my hat over my eyes, and 
wrapping myself snugly round in the thick folds of 
a huge boat-cloak, I sallied forth from the cheerful 
brightness of Lady Mary's boudoir, into the darkness 
visible of the wild scene without. Wildly magnifi- 
cent it was, in truth ! My path lay along the shore, 
against which mountainous waves came rolling in 
long ridges, with a sound like thunder. Sleet, falling 
at intervals, mingled with the sea surf, whirled high 
into the air in showers of foam, and both were dri- 
ven into my face by the south-west blast, with a vio- 
lence that obliged me frequently to stop and gasp 
for breath. Large masses of clouds now hurried 
in sublime disorder across the dim struggling moon, 
whose pale watery rays yet gleamed at intervals with 
ghastly indistinctness, along the white sands, and on 
the frothy crests of the advancing billows. 

As I pursued my way, buffeting the conflicting 
elements, other sounds, methought, appeared to 
mingle in their wild uproar. The hoarse and shrill 
intonation of human voices seemed blended with 
the wailing and sobbing of the storm, and the 



THE SMUGGLER. 201 

creaking and labouring of planks, and the splash 
of oars, was distinguishable, I thought, in the long 
lull of the retreating waves. I was not deceived ; a 
momentary gleam of moonlight glanced on the white 
sails of a lugger in the offing. And one of her boats 
— a black speck on the billows— was discernible 
working her way laboriously towards the coast. At 
that moment, another boat shot along close in-shore, 
with the alacrity of lightning ; and, at the same in- 
stant, a man rushed by me, whose tall remarkable 
figure I recognized for Campbell, even in that dim 
momentary glance. He darted on with the rapidity 
of an arrow, and immediately I heard a long shrill 
whistle, echoed and re-echoed by another and an- 
other, from the cliffs, from the shore, and from the 
sea. Those sights and sounds indicated too plainly 
that the demons of mischief were at work, and the 
time and scene were gloomily in unison with their 
hour of evil agency. The moon had almost with- 
drawn her feeble light, and I could no longer discern 
any objects but the white sands under my feet, and 
the sea-foam that frothed over them. More than two 
miles of my homeward way yet lay before me, and 



202 THE SMUGGLER. 

in that space I should have to cross two gullies fur- 
rowed through the sands by land-springs from the 
cliffs. 

Intermingled and bedded in these were numerous 
rocky fragments, and foundered masses of the cliff, 
amongst which it was easy to pick one's daylight 
way ; but the impenetrable darkness that now enve- 
loped every object, made me pause, to consider how 
far it might be safe, or even practicable, for a stran- 
ger to persevere in the wave-washed path. A light 
streaming from one of the windows of Campbell's 
cottage, a few furlongs up the beach, decided the 
result of my deliberations, and I turned towards the 
little dwelling, purposing to apply there for a light 
and a guide, should the younger Campbell chance to 
be at home. 

I had no need to knock for admittance, the door 
was wide open, and on its threshold] stood the mo- 
ther of the family. The light from within slanted 
athwart her face and figure, and I could perceive 
that she was listening with intense breathlessness, 
and with eyes straining, as if they sought to pierce 
the darkness, towards the quarter from whence I 
was approachino. 



THE SMUGGLER. §03 

Her ear soon caught the sound of my step on the 
loose shingle, and she started forward, exclaiming, 
" Oh, Amy ! thank God ! here they are !" The 
young woman sprang to the door with a light, and 
its beams, alas ! revealed my then unwelcome face, 
instead of that of the father and husband. — " Oh, 
sir ! I thought — " was poor Margaret's hurried, unfi- 
nished exclamation, when she discovered her mistake, 
" but you are kindly welcome," she added, quickly 
recovering herself, " for this is not a night for any 
Christian soul to be out in, though my husband and 
son, — Oh, sir ! they are both — both tossing in one 
little boat on that dreadful sea ; and that is not all 
— the Ranger's boats are on the look-out for the 
lugger they are going to help to unload, and God 
knows what may happen. I prayed and beseeched 
them for this night only to stay peaceably at home, 
such a night of weather as was working up, but all 
in vain. We had promised my lady, and the cargo 
was to be landed to-night. Oh, sir ! my lady, and 
the like of she, little think — " and the poor woman 
burst into tears. This was no time for admonition 
and reproof, or for those consolatory observations so 



204 THE SMUGGLER. 

often made to the unhappy, of " I told you it would 
come to this ;" or " This would not have happened 
if you had taken my advice ;" or " Well, you have 
brought it all upon yourself." 

When God has spoken, the fellow-mortal may 
well forbear all language but that of sympathy and 
comfort, and He had now spoken to the hearts of 
these poor people. The fatal consequences of their 
illicit traffic, and its nefariousness, were brought 
home to their minds more forcibly by the agonizing 
suspense they were enduring, than could have been 
effected by any arguments I might have laboured to 
enforce. I did my best to allay those terrors — -to 
dispel them would have been impossible, while the 
tempest raged louder and louder, and independent 
of that, there were other grounds of too reason- 
able apprehension. I suggested the probability of 
Campbell's not being in the boat, as he had passed 
me on shore so recently, but at all events he and his 
son were abroad with a desperate gang, expecting, 
and armed against resistance Forgetful of my own 
purpose of borrowing a lantern to proceed homeward, 
I entered the cabin with the distressed females, whose 



THE SMUGGLER. 205 

looks thanked ine for not turning away from them in 
their hour of trial. 

A cheerful fire brightened the interior of the little 
dwelling, where neatness and order still bore testi- 
mony that the habits of its inmates had at one time been 
those of peaceful and honest industry. The fire-light 
gleamed ruddy red on the clean brick floor ; a carved 
oak table, and a few heavy old chairs of the same fa- 
shion, were bright with the polish of age and house- 
wifery ; and one, distinguished by a high-stuffed back 
and arms and a green cushion, was placed close be- 
side the ingle-nook, the easily distinguished seat of 
the father of the family. His pipe lay close at hand 
(the curious meer-schaum pipe) on the high mantle- 
piece, where a pair of brass candlesticks, a few china 
cups, some tall slim ale glasses (their long shanks 
ornamented with white spiral lines), two foreign 
shells, some little French pictures of saints in all the 
colours of the rainbow, and sundry tobacco-stoppers 
of fantastical figure, were arranged in symmetrical 
order. The dresser was elaborately set out with its 
rows of yellow ware, its mugs of various shape and 
size, and quaint diversity of motto and device, itsja- 



206 THE SMUGGLER. 

panned tray and mahogany tea-chest, proudly conspi- 
cuous in the centre. The wails were hung round with 
nets, baskets, and fishing apparatus, and high over the 
chimney-piece, part of a whale's jaw, and two long 
crossed peacock's feathers, were affixed in a sort of 
trophy. All sorts of useful and nondescript articles 
were suspended to the rafter ; but Campbell's duck- 
gun, and his two clumsy pistols, rested not on the 
hooks he was wont to call his armoury. An unfi- 
nished net was suspended by the chimney comer, at 
which the youthful widow had recently been employ- 
ed. She resumed her seat and shuttle, but the hand 
that held it often rested idly on her lap, while her 
eyes were ri vetted with mournful solicitude on the 
countenance of her mother. 

There was something particularly interesting in 
the appearance of this young woman. Not beauty 
of feature, for, excepting a pair of fine dark eyes, 
shaded by very long black eyelashes, there was no- 
thing uncommon in her countenance, and her natu- 
rally dark and colourless complexion was now deeply 
tinged with the sallow hue of sickness. Her lips 
were whiter than her cheeks, and her uncommonly 



THE SMUGGLER. 201 

tall figure, bowed down with the burthen of weak- 
ness and sorrow, was attenuated to a state that would 
have amounted to gaunt meagreness, had the frame 
been less slightly and delicately formed. But when 
she lifted up those dark eyes, their melancholy light 
was touchingly in unison with the general character 
of that shadowy figure that seemed almost transpa- 
rent to the working of the wounded spirit within. 

Amy's young heart had never recovered the shock 
of her William's untimely death, and her timid tender 
spirit was overburthened with a heavy load of con- 
scious self-reproach, that for her sake, and that of 
her infants, her father and brother had involved 
themselves in the perilous unlawfulness of their 
present courses. 

As she sat looking in her mother's face, I could 
read in hers the thoughts that were passing in her 
mind. At last, a large tear, that had been slowly 
gathering, swelled over her quivering eyelid, and 
rising suddenly, and letting fall the netting and 
shuttle, she came and edged herself on one comer 
of her mother's chair, and clasping one aim round 
her neck, and hiding her face on her shoulder, sobbed 



208 THE SMUGGLEK. 

out, " Mother !"— « My Amy ! my dear child !" 
whispered the fond parent, tenderly caressing her, 
" why should you always reproach yourself so ? 
You, who have been a good dutiful child, and a 
comfort to us, and a blessing, ever since you was 
born ? Before your poor father fell into evil compa- 
ny, and hearkened to their wicked persuasions, did 
we not contrive to maintain ourselves, and your dear 
fatherless babies, by God's blessing on our honest in- 
dustry ? And where should you have taken refuge, 
my precious Amy, but under your parents' roof?" 
A look of eloquent gratitude and a tender silent kiss 
were Amy's reply to that soothing whisper. For a 
few moments this touching intercourse of hearts 
beguiled them from the intense anxiety with which 
they had been listening to every sound from with- 
out ; but the redoubling violence of the storm roused 
them fearfully from that temporary abstraction, and 
they started, and shuddered, and looked in one an- 
other's faces, and in mine, as if imploring comfort, 
when, alas ! I had only sympathy to bestow. The 
conflict of winds and waters was indeed tremen- 
dous, and I felt too forcibly convinced, that, if the 



THE SMUGGLER. 209 

poor Campbells were exposed to it in their little 
nut-shell of a boat, nothing short of a miracle could 
save them from a watery grave. 

There was some chance, however, that the land- 
ing of the contraband bales might have been effected 
by the lugger's boats without help from shore ; and 
in that case, the prolonged absence of the husband 
and son might arise from their having proceeded 
with others of the gang to convey them to some in- 
land place of concealment. The probability of this 
suggestion was eagerly caught at by the anxious pair, 
but the ray of hope elicited from it, gleamed with 
transient brightness. A gust of wind, more awful 
than any that had preceded it, rushed past with 
deafening uproar, and as it died away, low sobs, 
and shrill moaning sounds, seemed mingled with its 
deep bass. We were all silent — now straining our 
sight from the cabin door into the murky darkness 
without— *now gathering together round the late 
blazing hearth, where the neglected embers emitted 
only a fitful glimmer. The wind whistling through 
every chink and cranny, waved to and fro the flame 
of the small candle declining in its socket, and at 

o 



210 THE SMUGGLER. 

last the hour of twelve was struck by " the old clock 
that ticked behind the door" in its dark heavy case. 
At that moment a large venerable-looking book, that 
lay with a few others on a hanging shelf near the 
chimney, slipped from the edge on which it had been 
overbalanced, and fell with a dull heavy sound at 
Margaret's feet. It was the Bible that had belonged 
to her husband's mother, and, stooping to pick up 
and replace it, she perceived that it had fallen open 
at the leaf, where, twenty-two years back from that 
very day, the venerable parent had recorded with 
pious gratitude the birth of her sons first-born. 
" Ah, my dear son ! my own good Maurice !" eja- 
culated the heart-struck mother, " I was not used 
to forget the day God gave thee to me — Thou wert 
the first to leave me, and now — " She was inter- 
rupted by the low indistinct murmur of a human 
voice, that sounded near us. I started — but Amy's 
ear was familiar with the tone — it was that of one 
of her little ones, talking and moaning in its sleep. 
The small chamber where they lay opened from that 
we were in, and the young mother crept softly to- 
wards the bed of her sleeping infants. She was still 



THE SMUGGLER. 211 

bending over them, when the outer door was sud- 
denly dashed open, and Campbell — Campbell him- 
self, burst into the cottage. Oh ! with what a shriek 
of ecstasy was he welcomed— with what a rapture of 
inarticulate words, clinging embraces, and tearful 
smiles ! — But the joy was short-lived, and succeed- 
ed by a sudden chill of nameless apprehension ; for, 
disengaging himself roughly from the arms of his 
wife and daughter, he made straight towards his 
own old chair, and flinging himself back in it, cover- 
ed his face with his clasped hands. One only cause 
for this fearful agitation suggested itself to his 
trembling wife — " My son ! my son P she shrieked 
out, grasping her husband's arm — •" What have you 
done with him, Campbell ? He is dead ! He is mur- 
dered ! — Oh ! I knew it would come to this — " 
" Peace, woman !" shouted Campbell, in a voice of 
thunder, uncovering his face as he started up wildly 
from his chair with a look of appalling fierceness, — 
" Peace, woman ! your son is safe ;" then his voice 
abruptly sinking into a hoarse low tone, he added, 
" This is not his blood," and he flung on the table 
before him bis broad white cross belt, on which the 



212 THE SMUGGLER. 

tokens of a deadly fray were frightfully apparent. 
" Campbell !" I said, " unhappy man ! what have 
you done? To what have you exposed your wretched 
family ? For their sakes escape — escape for your life, 
while the darkness favours you." He looked at me 
for a moment as if wavering, but immediately resu- 
ming the voice and aspect of desperate sternness, 
replied, " It is too late — they are at my heels — the 
blood-hounds ! They tracked me home." And while 
he yet spoke, the trampling of feet, and the sound 
of loud voices confirmed his words. The door burst 
open, and several rough-looking men in sailors' garb 
rushed into the cottage. 

" Ah ! we have you, my man," they vociferated, 
" we have you safe, though the young villain has 
given us the slip." — " Villain !" shouted Campbell, 
" who dares call my boy a villain ?" But check- 
ing himself instantaneously, he added in a subdued, 
quiet tone, " But I am in your power, and you 
must say what you please, and do what you will." 
And so saying, he once more threw himself back in 
his old chair, in sullen submissiveness. The women 
clung weeping around him, his unhappy wife r\- 



THE SMUGGLER. 213 

claiming, " Oh ! what has he clone ? If there has 
been mischief, it is not his fault — he would not 
hurt a fly — for all his rough way he is as tender- 
hearted as a child. — Richard ! Richard ! speak to 
them, tell them they have mistaken you for another." 
He neither spoke nor moved, nor lifted his eyes up 
from the floor on which they were rivetted. " No 
mistake at all, mistress I" said one of the men, " he 
has only shot one of our people, that's all, and we 
must fit him with a pair of these bracelets." And 
so saying, he began fastening a pair of handcuffs on 
Campbell's wrists. He offered no resistance, and 
seemed, indeed, almost unconscious of what was 
doing, when the eldest of Amy's children, a pretty 
little girl about four years old, who, having been 
awakened by the noise, had crept softly from her 
bed, and made her way unperceived towards her 
grandfather, burst into a fit of loud sobbing, and 
climbing up upon his knees, and clasping her little 
arms about his neck, and laying her soft cheek to 
his dark rough one, lisped out — " Send away naughty 
men, grandad — naughty men frighten Amy." 



211 THE SMUGGLE!!. 

The springs of sensibility that seemed frozen up 
in Campbell's bosom, were touched electrically by 
the loving voice and caresses of his little darling. He 
hugged her to his bosom, which began to heave con- 
vulsively, and for a few minutes the tears of the old 
man and the little child mingled in touching silence. 
As he clasped her thus, the handcuff that was already- 
fastened on his left wrist pressed painfully on her 
tender arm, and as she shrank from it he seemed 
first to perceive the ignominious fetter. His feature* 
were wrung by a sudden convulsion ; but the expres- 
sion was momentary,, and turning round his head to- 
wards his weeping daughter, he said quietly, " Amy, 
my dear child ! take the poor baby — I little thought, 
dear lamb ! she would ever find hurt or harm in her 
old grandfather's arms." 

It was a touching scene — even the rough sailors 
seemed affected by it, and they were more gently 
completing their operation of attaching the other 
manacle, when again voices and footsteps were heard 
approaching ; again the door opened, and another 
party of sailors entered, bearing amongst them a 



THE SMUGGLER. 215 

ghastly burthen, the lifeless body of the unfortunate 
young man, who had been shot in the execution of his 
duty, by the rash hand of the wretched man before us, 
whose fire was not the less fatal for having been dis- 
charged almost aimlessly in the bustle of a desperate 
conflict. " We've missed our boats, and we could 
not let him lie bleeding on the beach, poor fellow !" 
said one of the new comers, in reply to an exclama- 
tion of surprise from those of their party already in 
possession of the cottage. Campbell's agitation was 
fearful to behold ; he turned shuddering from the 
sight of his victim — the women stood petrified with 
horror ; I alone retaining some degree of self-posses- 
sion, advanced to examine if human aid might yet 
avail to save the poor youth, who was laid, apparently 
a corpse, on three chairs next the door. 

Comprehending my purpose, the humane and ser- 
viceable tenderness of poor Margaret's nature pre- 
vailed even in that hour of her extreme distress, and 
she came trembling to assist me in the painful exa- 
mination. 

The young man's face had dropt aside on one 
shoulder towards the wall, and was almost covered 



216 the smuggler. 

by the luxuriant hair (a sailor's pride) which had 
escaped from the confining ribbon, and fell in dark 
wet masses across his cheek and brow. His right hand 
hung down over the side of the chair, and taking it 
into mine, I found that it was already as cold as 
marble, and that all pulsation had ceased. 

Margaret had as promptly as her agitation would 
permit removed his black handkerchief, and unbut- 
toned the collar of his checked shirt, and though 
she started and shuddered inwardly at the sight 
of blood thickly congealed over his bosom, per- 
sisted heroically in her trying task. A handkerchief 
had been hastily stuffed down as a temporary pledget 
into the wounded breast. In removing it, Margaret's 
finger became entangled by a black silk cord passed 
round the youth's neck, to which a small locket was 
suspended. She was hastily putting it aside, when 
the light held by one of the sailors fell upon the 
medallion (a perforated gold pocket-piece), and her 
eye glancing towards it, a half-choked exclamation 
broke from her lips, and looking up I saw her stand- 
ing motionless — breathless — her hands clasped to- 
gether with convulsive vehemence, and her eyes 



THE SMUGGLER. 21? 

almost starting from their sockets, in the state of in- 
describable horror with which they were rivetted on 
that bosom-token. At last a cry (such a one as my 
ears never before heard, the recollection of which 
still curdles the blood in my veins) burst from her 
lips, and brought her daughter and husband (even 
the unhappy man himself, manacled as he was) to 
the side of his victim, over whom Margaret was still 
bending in that intense agony. But at last, as if 
suddenly conscious that her husband stood beside 
her, and was gazing with her on that ghastly spec- 
tacle, (while large cold drops gathered on his brow, 
and his white lips quivered as he gazed,) she looked 
up in his face with such a look as I never shall for- 
get. It was one of horrid calmness, more fearful to 
behold than the wildest expression of passionate 
agony, and grasping his fettered hand firmly in one 
of hers, and with the other pointing to the perforated 
gold piece, as it lay on the mangled bosom of the 
dead youth, she said in a low, distinct, unnatural 
voice — " Who is that, Richard ?" He started, and 
his eyes, which had been rivetted with an expression 



218 THE SMUGGLER. 

of deep horror on the bloody work of his rash hand, 
now caught sight of the gold token, and from that 
wandered wildly and hurriedly over the lifeless form, 
while his whole frame shook as if in the paroxysm 
of an ague fit. Gradually the universal tremor sub- 
sided — the wandering eyes settled into a ghastly 
stare, the convulsive workings of the muscles of his 
face gave way to a rigid fixedness, and he stood like 
one petrified in the very burst of despair. Once 
more Margaret repeated, in that quiet deliberate 
tone, " Who is that, Richard ?" and suddenly lean- 
ing forward, dashed aside from the face of the corpse 
the dark locks that had hitherto concealed it. Then 
clasping her hands in a sort of joyous triumph, she 
cried out in a shrill voice — " I knew it was my son ! 
My son is come home at last ! Richard, welcome 
your son !" and snatching her husband's hand, she 
endeavoured to pull him forward towards the pale 
face of the dead. But he to whom this heart-rend- 
ing appeal was spoken, replied only by one deep 
groan, that seemed to burst up, as it were, the very 
fountains of his heart. He staggered back a few 



THE SMUGGLER. 219 

paces — his eyes closed — the convulsion of a moment 
passed over his features, and he sunk down as inani- 
mate as the pale corpse, that was still clasped with 
frantic rapture to the bosom of the brain-struck mo- 
ther. 



C 220 ] 



A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT. 



A fair place and pleasant, this same world of ours ! 
Who says there are serpents 'mongst all the sweet 

flowers ? 
Who says, every blossom we pluck has its thorn ? 
Pho ! pho ! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn. 

If you roam to the tropics for flowers rich and rare, 
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there- 
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true, 
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too. 

But prithee look there — Could a serpent find room 
In that close-woven moss, where those violets bloom ? 
And reach me that woodbine (you'll get it with ease) — 
Now, wiseacre ! where are the thorns, if you please 



A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT, 221 

I say there are Angels in every spot, 
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not ; 
That they're guardians assigned to the least of us all, 
By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall ; 

That they're aye flitting near us, around us, above, 
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love — 
That they're glad when were happy, disturb'd at our 

tears. 
Distress'd at our weaknesses, failings, and fears ; 

That they care for the least of our innocent joys, 
Though we're cozen' d like children with trifles and 

toys, 
And can lead us to bloom beds, and lovely ones too, 
Where snake never harbour'd, and thorn never grew. 



[ 222 ] 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 

STANZAS ACCOMPANYING A PICTURE. 



We three were loving friends ! — a lowly life 
Of humble peace, obscure content, we led : 

Stealing away, withouten noise or strife, 
Like some small streamlet in its mossy bed. 

We had our joys in common — wisdom, wit, 
And learned lore, had little share in those : 

Thus, by the winter fire we used to sit, 
Or in the summer evening's warm repose, 

At our sweet bowery window, op'ning down 
To the green grass, beneath the flowering lime, 

When the deep curfew from the distant town 
Came mellow'd, like the voice of olden time ; 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 223 

And our grave neighbour, from the barn hard by, 
The great grey owl, sail'd out on soundless wings, 

And the pale stars, like beams of memory, 
Bright'ned as twilight veil'd all earthly things. 

'Twas then we used to sit, as pictured thus— 
My pillow, as in childhood, still the same, 

Those venerable knees, and close to us, 

Old Ranger, pressing oft his jealous claim — 

And then I loved to feel that gentle hand 
Laid like a blessing on my head — to bear 

The " auld-warld" stories, even at command, 
By all but her forgotten many a year ; 

And then we talk'd together of the days 

We both remember' d — and of those who slept— 

And the old dog look'd up with wistful gaze, 
As if he, too, that faithful record kept. 

We three were loving friends ! — Now one is gone— 
And one— poor feeble thing ! — declineth fast — 

And well I wot, the days are drawing on 
Will find me here, the lonely and the last ; 



22 I THE THREE FRIENDS. 

But not to tarry long ; and when I go, 

The stranger's hand will have dominion here, 

And lay thy walls, my peaceful dwelling ! low, 
As my last lodging in the church-yard near. 

1824. 



[ 22y> \ 



TO MY BIRDIE, 



Here's only you an me, Birdie ! here's only you an' 
me I 
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl ! 
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl — 

Sour companie ! 

Sing me a little sang, Birdie ! lilt up a little lay ! — 
When folks are here, fu fain are ye 
To stun them wi' yere minstrelsie 

The lee lang day ; 

An' now we're only twa, Birdie ! an' now we're only 
twa — 
'Twere sure but kind an' cozie, Birdie ! 
To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie, 

Dull Care awa. 
p 



226 TO MY BIRDIE. 

Ye ken, when folks are paired, Birdie ! ye ken, when 
folks are paired — 
Life's fair, an' fou', and freakish weather, 
An' light an' lumbrin' loads thegither, 

Maun a' be shared ; 

An' shared wi' lovin' hearts, Birdie ! wi' lovin' hearts 
an' free — 
Fu' fashions loads may weel be borne, 
An' roughest roads to velvet turn, 

Trod cheerfully. 

We've a' our cares an' crosses, Birdie ! we've a' our 
cares an' crosses — 
But then to sulk an sit sae glum — 
Hout ! tout ! — what gude o' that can come 

To mend ane's losses ? 

Ye're dipt in wiry fence, Birdie ! yere dipt in wiry 
fence — 
An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang 
Upo' a wish, wad be or lang 

Wi' frien s far hence ; 



TO MY BIRDIE. 221 

But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie ! but what's a wish, 
ye ken ? 
Nae cantrip naig, like hers of Fife, 
Wha darnit wi' the auld wierd wife, 

Flood, fell> an' fen. 

Tis true, ye're furnish'd fair, Birdie ! 'tis true, ye're 
furnish' d fair, 
Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings, 
Wad lift ye whar yon lav'roek sings, 

High up i' th' air ; 

But then that wire's sae Strang, Birdie ! but then that 
wire's sae Strang ! 
An' I niysel' sae seemin' free — 
Nae wings have I to waften me 

Whar fain I'd gang. 

An' say we'd baith our wills, Birdie ! we'd each our 
wilfu' way — 
Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly, 
An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie 

Whar wishes stray 



228 TO MY B1RDII% 

An' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie ! an ae thing weel I 
wot — 
There's Ane abune the highest sphere, 
Wha cares for a' His creatures here, 

Marks ev'ry lot ; 

Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie ! wha guards the 
crowned king, 
An taketh heed for sic as me — 
Sae little worth — an e'en for thee, 

Puir witless thing ! 

Sae noo, let's baith cheer up, Birdie ! an sin we're 
only twa — 
Aff han' — let's ilk ane do our best, 
To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest, 

Dull Care &wa' ! 



22y 



OH ! ENVIES AN UNCANNIE GUEST 



Oh ! Envie's an uncanny guest. 

I've heard it a way, naethin' doubtin* ; 
An' yet, she bideth i' my breast, 

An' wlnna gang, for a my routine 

She does na wear her foulest face 
To scare me quite, the crafty quean ! 

But whiles, a sentimental grace — 
A saft, poetic, pensive mien,— 

As, " Hark !" quo' she, " that mirthfu sai)£\ 
Yon Birdie's, frae the dancin' rowans, 

An' mark yon Lassie link alang, 

Sae lightsome, o'er the dewy gowans. 



230 envie's an uncannie guest. 

" Oh, warldly honours ! warldly walth 1 
How far thae lowly lots surpass ye — 

Contentit labour, jocund health, 

O' yon sma Bird, an' simple Lassie. 

" Blythe, bonnie creatures ! fain would I, 
Tho' walth an' fame I've nane to barter — " 

Sae softly thus will Envie sigh — 
Sae saintly, like a Virgin Martyr. 

Nor scowleth she, wi' fiendish leuks, 
At heaps o' gowd, or laurel crowns, 

But gravely whispers, " Gowd buys beuks, 
An* lovin' lauds, an' silver soun's !" 

An that's but truth, an' little wrang, 
We'll a' alloo, in sich-like havers— 

But let alane the jaud, or lang 

She starts mair guilefu' clishmaclavers — 

As, " Leuk !" quo' she, " yon burly chiel, 
Wi' red, roun face, like Hob the Miller, 

What blund'rin turn o' Fortune's wheel 
Gat him the luck o' mickle siller ? 



envie's an uncannie guest. 231 

" What earthly bliss eonceiveth he 

Ayont a mess o' sav'ry pottage — 
A flarin' coach — a shrievaltie — 

A gimcrack castle, or a cottage ? 

" An' tither wise-like wizen carle 

Wi' visage yellow as a crocus, 
An' eyes a' pucker' d in a harl, 

That peer thro's han' (which mak's a focus) — 

" At yonner awfu' brick-dust daub, 

His bran-new Reubens — Reubens ! horrit ! 

Ay, warrant-it by Mynheer Schaub, 

Wha's pooched the ninny's thoosan's for it. 

" An' that auld crabbit chuff! wha pays 
Doon hunderts for an auld Elzeevir ; 

An' that young fule ! wi' four blood bays, 
An' nae mair spirit than a weaver, 

" For aught that's really fine an gran' — - 
An' yet the cretur's travell'd Europe, 

An' tauks o' Rome, the Vatican, 

The Greeks, the Louvre, Voltaire, an' Merope. 



232 envie's an uncannie guest. 

" An' that gay Dowager an' daughters, 

Wha've been abroad, an brought back hame 

French laces — graces — scented waters — 
Mosaics — Cameos, an' — Fame. 

" An' a' thae folk rin to an* fra, 

An* scatter gowd like chucky stanes ; 

While ither folk, for aught I knaw, 
As gude, if no as lucky anes — " 

" Haud, Madame E nvie ! — Are ye there ?" 
Quoth I, — " methinks, frae sma' beginnings, 

For a' yere sanctimonious air, 

Ye're gettin' on till serious sinnin's. 

" What's ways o' itlier folk to me ? 

Or a' their gowd — or hoo they spend it ? 
Fause Hizzie ! let a bodie be, 

Whad fain be humble and contentit." 

" Oh ! very weel — nae need," quo' she, 
" To rage wi' virtue sae heroic ; 

Mak much o' yere philosophie, 
Ye'll need it a', my Leddy Stoic ! 



envie's an uncannie guest. 23S 

" When Beltane comes, an' a' the dells 
An' a' the banks an' braes are ringin' 

Wi' bleat o' lambs, an' tinklin' bells, 

An whimplin' burns, an lintwhites singin' ; 

" And a* the boimie broomie knowes 
Wi tufts o' flowerin' May are crested, 

Festoon'd wi' monie a wildin' rose, 

An' vilets, 'mangst the auld roots nested ; 

" An' ev'ry whiff o' win's a freight, 

Frae Heav'n itsel', o' sweet sensation— 

An' ev'ry livin' thing's elate 
Wi' Nature's blissfu' renovation ; 

" An ye're a captive — sick an' lane, 
Sae sadly frae ye're window peerin', 

Ye'll need a heart o' flint and stane 
To bar me fairly out o' hearin'. 

" An liltin' loud, like Merle in June, 
Comes kintra Joan, but loupin' pass ye— 

I guess we'll wauk that auncient croon"— 

" Oh, Heav'n ! were I some Cottage Lassie P 



[ 234 ] 



RANGER'S GRAVE. 

March 1825. 



He's dead and gone ! — He's dead and gone ! 
And the lime-tree branches wave, 
And the daisy blows, 
And the green grass grows, 
Upon his grave. 

He's dead and gone ! — He's dead and gone ! 
And he sleeps by the flowering lime, 
Where he loved to lie, 
When the sun was high, 
In Summer time. 



ranger's grave, 235 

We've laid him there, for I could not bear 
His poor old bones to hide 
In some dark hole, 
Where rat and mole 
And blind worms bide. 

WeVe laid him there, where the blessed air 
Disports with the lovely light, 
And raineth showers 
Of those sweet flowers 
So silver white ; 

Where the blackbird sings, and the wild bee's wings 
Make music all day long, 
And the cricket at night 
(A dusky sprite !) 
Takes up the song, 

He loved to lie, where his wakeful eye 
Could keep me still in sight, 
Whence a word or a sign, 
Or a look of mine, 

Brought him like light, 



236 ranger's grave, 

Nor word, nor sign, nor look of mine, 
From under the lime-tree bough, 
With bark and bound, 
And frolic round, 
Shall bring him now. 

But he taketh his rest, where he loved best 
In the days of his life to be, 
And that place will not 
Be a common spot 
Of earth to me. 



IHE END, 



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